


and the universe said you are not alone

by alonsos



Series: stars are the only things we share [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst, Crossover, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, M/M, Mission Logs, Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Reunions, Slow Burn, Space Puns, Touch-Starved, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-07-26 18:54:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 44,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7586032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alonsos/pseuds/alonsos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Martian AU in which Grantaire gets stranded in space: how he survives on a desolate planet, how his crew deals with his absence, how his friends react to his (supposed) death, and how the world comes together to get him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> -Try to tell me Grantaire wouldn't be a sarcastic little shit just like Mark Watney if he got stranded on Mars
> 
> -I tried to keep the different formats consistent with each other: they alternate between log entries (like the book), video log transcripts (like the movie), and various other points of view.

**[VIDEO LOG ENTRY: SOL 7]**

               GRANTAIRE, B.

“I’m pretty much fucked. That’s my scientific opinion anyway, for all the good that it’ll do. _Fucked._ I mean, of all things that could have happened… Let me just start over.”

_The man in front of the camera has dark circles under his eyes and is wrapped in a thick blanket. He takes a deep breath._

“Hello, this is Benjamin Grantaire, astronaut. I'm entering this log for the record in case I don’t make it. It’s 06:53 on Sol 7 and I’m alive. Obviously. Guessing that's gonna come as a shock to my crew and NASA. And to France. And to the entire world, probably, so... Surprise!”

_As his hoarse voice trails off, the silence of the Hab becomes more significant. His smile grows a little uneasy._

“I didn't die on Sol 6. I was hit by the antenna from the satellite and then dragged with it during the storm. It ripped a hole in my side, tore through my bio-monitor. That sucked. The drying blood from that must be why my suit wasn’t breached, it sealed the tear.”

_He winces as his stretch pulls on the stapled wound. The man’s face grows serious._

“Commander Lewis, if you ever see this... It wasn’t your fault, just bad luck. You did what you had to do and if I had been in your position I would have done the same for the crew. I’m glad you guys made it. I don’t blame you.”

_He listens to the howling winds and tries not to focus on the silence looming. The man wraps the blanket around his shoulders a little tighter._

“So, that’s where we’re at. I’m alone on Mars. I have no way to contact NASA because the communications antenna broke and ripped a hole into my stomach, which we’ve covered. And even if I could, it’ll be four years before the next Ares mission gets here. And I’m in a Hab designed to last thirty-one days. If the oxygenator breaks, I’ll suffocate. If the water reclaimer breaks, I’ll die of thirst. If the Hab breaches, I’ll just sort of... implode.”

_He pauses._

“And if, by some miracle, none of that happens, eventually I’m going to run out of food. So... yeah.” 

_…_

Grantaire sat in his bunk for hours after recording the video log and watched the sun rise. He kept his face turned towards the tiny window instead of his bunk walls, which were covered in pictures— pictures of his crew, his friends. Paris. 

Of course, thinking about them obsessively was just as bad as staring at them, but he ignored that. After all, he’d be looking at them for a long time.

 _Shut up brain,_ he thought. 

He forced himself to turn away and his eyes raked over his crew-mates’ empty bunks. R had spent the better part of an hour clearing their personal items from their spaces and boxing them up. His fingers lingered over their pictures before packing them, his mouth set in a grim line. 

Grantaire was caught somewhere between having a million thoughts on his mind and blanking on everything. _Looks like it’s going to be a long four years._

 

* * *

  

**[ November 14, 2035 ]**

Mitch Henderson's flight landed in Paris at five in the morning. He hadn’t been this tired in years— both physically and emotionally. The news of the disaster on Mars the day before had crushed him. As the Ares III mission director Mitch had gotten to known each crew member very well before their departure, and had been more than optimistic about the mission. Benjamin Grantaire is one of NASA’s finest astronauts.

 _Was,_ he corrected sadly. 

Mitch hadn’t even left the airport before pulling up Grantaire’s emergency contact information and prepared himself for a painful morning. 

This, he knew, would be a horrible day for everyone.

...

Feuilly was the early bird of the group. He started his day well before sunrise most days without fail (and was chipper about it, much to Joly’s annoyance). Coffee in hand, he was already preparing to leave for work when his mobile rang. 

“Hello?” Feuilly asked as he balanced his drink and phone in one hand while trying to lock the door. 

“Hi, is this flight director Mitch Henderson from NASA. Am I talking to Antoine Feuilly?”

“Speaking. How can I help you?” He tried not to curse as the coffee burned him. 

“I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind meeting me for a bit. I’m currently downtown but I can come to you if it’s not convenient. Apologies for the early hour.” His courteous voice did not betray anything. 

Feuilly paused. _A NASA supervisor in Paris?_ He tried to maintain his polite manner as questions burned on his tongue. “I can do that. What time?” 

“As soon as possible.”

 _Fuck work._ “Where should I meet you?”

...

Feuilly regretted downing all of the coffee on his way to the conference room at the ESA headquarters. He had already been on edge during the phone call with Henderson and the caffeine only made it worse. Now as he approached the room it was all he could do not to turn around. _I feel like I'm about to walk onstage or something,_ he thought, and entered without knocking.

“Mr. Henderson?”

A man stood at the far end of the windows before turning. It was still fairly dark outside and he squinted. “Hi, you must be Feuilly. You can call me Mitch. Please, sit down.”

Coffee and a few pastries were laid out on the table. _As if I need any more energy right now,_ he thought. 

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here,” Mitch said quietly when they were both seated. “You are the priority contact for Benjamin Grantaire, so I need to inform you of some events that happened yesterday on the Ares III mission.” 

Feuilly didn’t speak. He knew that voice, that somber tone that frightened him. _I should have turned around and walked away,_ he thought. He gave a brisk nod in acknowledgment before Mitch continued. 

“Very early yesterday morning our satellites picked up a storm on Mars advancing towards the Ares III base. We alerted the crew immediately.” Feuilly watched Mitch anxiously rub his hands together. “After some time the team as well as NASA came to the conclusion to withdraw the mission and perform an emergency evacuation. Major Martinez prepared the Ascent Vehicle for departure.”

He looked up from Mitch’s hands in surprise. _They scrapped the mission? Grantaire must be devastated, they only just arrived._ Feuilly exhaled and tried to come up with a response but the director spoke again. 

“However, as the remaining crew proceeded to the vehicle…” Mitch paused as his voice hitched in his throat. “Debris from the winds collided with Grantaire.” He met Feuilly’s eyes.

Feuilly blinked back at him.

“Grantaire’s signal was not recovered and the crew was forced to evacuate under the order of Commander Lewis.” His eyes fell back to the table, but Feuilly could not look away from Mitch.

A thousand thoughts were racing through his head and he could not make sense of a single one of them. _Damn coffee._

“He… What?” Feuilly’s confused voice was barely a whisper.

“I am beyond sorry for your loss. On behalf of all of NASA, but first and foremost as his flight director. I am truly, truly sorry…” Mitch buried his head in his hands. 

Feuilly couldn’t breathe. He registered everything Mitch Henderson had just told him but he was paralyzed. Several minutes passed before he managed to speak.

“Who else knows?” He was surprised how clear his voice was when he felt like he was collapsing. 

Mitch sighed. “Not many. You and I, top NASA and ESA officials, the operators who were on duty. The crew, clearly.” He knitted his brows before looking at Feuilly again. “Director Sanders has delayed the official announcement until you could be informed, of course. Are there any other friends or family members that need to know?”

A pang went through Feuilly’s heart when he realized there were twelve other people who needed to hear. He wouldn’t be able to look at Bahorel’s face when the news broke. Or Eponine, or Joly, or Gavroche… _Fuck. Fuck. How can I tell them Grantaire is d—_

“Our friends. They need to know,” Feuilly said quietly as he ran his hands through his hair. 

“Would you like me to inform them?”

“I can do it... I should be the one to do it,” he murmured.

Mitch looked worriedly at the man in front of him. “You’ll have time to tell them, of course. I’ll let Sanders know he needs to wait. I will stay in Paris for the night in case you or anyone else would like to talk to me in person, ask questions and such.” He hesitated before putting a hand on Feuilly’s shoulder. “I cannot begin to express my condolences you all. I hope you know the regards Grantaire will be held in NASA’s memory. You will have the entire community in support of you.”

Feuilly closed his eyes before the tears could fall. 

_…_

The sun was just barely rising over the city but everyone’s phones were already buzzing. Groggily, they each checked the message alert from Feuilly.

_Meet me at the café. It’s important._

_…_

They were all there by the time Feuilly arrived. Some were dressed for work like him. Others, like Eponine and Courfeyrac, had clearly just rolled out of bed. But they were there regardless of their schedules, looking at him expectantly. He stood before them and cleared his throat. 

“Hi, I know it’s early. Uh…” His voice trailed off and he looked at his feet.

“Feuilly, come sit. What’s up?” Combeferre asked as he pulled out a chair next to him but Feuilly didn’t move.

He took a deep breath and looked at his friends for a few moments. Their tired faces exchanged looks of worry and they grew concerned. 

“Okay… I don’t know where to start with this. Earlier this morning I uh, got a call from Mitch Henderson.” He looked around again but no one showed any recognition to the name. _As if this could get any harder,_ he thought. “Henderson is the flight director for Grantaire’s mission. Asked me to meet him downtown.” Feuilly took another deep breath and tried to keep the panic from rising. “He uh, came to inform me of some stuff that went down yesterday,” he said, voice faltering slightly. 

“What, did they find an alien?” Courfeyrac asked, hoping to lighten Feuilly’s tension. His own easy grin fell from his face as Feuilly visibly grew more strained. 

“Feuilly?” Enjolras asked quietly. 

“The uh… There was a storm. On Mars. Heading towards them.” He looked at the ground again. “They scrapped the mission, NASA-” 

“Well shit,” Bahorel said. “Are they going to try again?”

“They’ve got to, that mission is so expensive,” Eponine said to various hums of agreement. 

Feuilly couldn’t find the words and his mouth opened and closed again. He took a few more sharp breaths in procession. _I’m gonna fall apart, I’ve got to tell them._  

“Feuilly, what is it?” Cosette’s voice rang above the chatter. They all went silent. 

“The crew was preparing to leave. The winds picked up, they…” He stared at them all in dismay. His voice dropped to a broken whisper. “Debris hit him. Something hit him and he… he—” Feuilly couldn’t speak any more. He leaned on the table and sobbed silently. 

Everyone looked at him in shock.

“Wait Feuilly, you don’t mean… You can’t mean that…” Joly asked softly. 

They stared at each other, and then at Feuilly’s shaking shoulders, before they fell apart. 

“No. _No.”_

“Oh God… Oh no…" 

“This can’t be happening-"

Enjolras’s heart felt like ice. He turned away from their sorrow, struggling to breathe. When he shut his eyes all he could see was Grantaire’s lopsided smile that he had committed to memory so many years ago.

_..._

_“At around 4:30 a.m. Central Standard Time on November 13, our satellites detected a storm approaching the Ares III mission site on Mars. We had no choice but to abort the mission. Thanks to the quick action of Commander Lewis, astronauts Beck, Johanssen, Martinez, and Vogel were all able to reach the Mars Ascent Vehicle to perform an emergency launch at 7:28 Central Time. Unfortunately, during the evacuation, astronaut Benjamin Grantaire was struck by debris and killed.”_

Televisions all over the world broadcasted Teddy Sanders’ somber announcement. The television in Café Musain, however, was off. The sign on the door said _closed_. It would remain closed for several days, though customers didn’t know why.

Thirteen people sat grieving in the upstairs room in complete silence. Some had tears pouring down their faces, some nursed a drink. 

One of them took his place in the front of the room. As he sat down, his eyes flickered to the back table. The emptiness of it hurt his heart, knowing no one would sit in that place again.

 

* * *

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 10]**

               GRANTAIRE, B.

 _You ever come to any conclusions on the toilet? I mean, there’s nothing like facing certain death while hanging out in the bathroom. As I was… you know, finishing up business… Something in my mind clicked. I’ve basically been staring at my bunk wall for the last three days but I_ _may_ _have something… I don’t know if it’ll work yet but I’ll keep you updated._

_Maybe I should do all of my thinking in there._

 

**[VIDEO LOG: SOL 10] (CONT’D)**

            _Grantaire appeared in front of the camera. The dark circles under his eyes remained but he had a bright look on his face that hadn’t been there before._

“So earlier I pillaged the Hab’s inventory. I say ‘pillage’ but technically, it’s all mine anyway. Whatever. Anyway, after several hours of mind-numbing counting, I’ve come to a few conclusions. For starters, the food here in the Hab was designed to last for thirty-one days. NASA sent food to last for sixty-eight. _But,_ that’s for six people. So just for me, that food will last for three-hundred days. And I figure if I ration it the food will last me four-hundred days.”

           _He pauses, crunching on a piece of freeze-dried granola._

“I’ve still gotta figure out how to grow three years worth of food. Here. On a planet where nothing grows.”

            _He holds up a folder and points to the label under his name, looking back at the screen with a shit-eating grin._

“Luckily, I’m a _botanist_.”

            _Grantaire sticks his head close to the camera and speaks in a low voice._

“Mars will come to _fear_ my botany powers.”

_…_

**[VIDEO LOG: SOL 13]**

_He holds up a silver bag and waggles his eyebrows._

“This is the _shit_ , you guys.”

 

 **[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 13]** **(CONT’D)**

  _I know what you’re thinking. ‘What’s a botanist going to do on a planet where nothing grows?’ Well dear students, let me enlighten you._

       _That tiny silver bag was the shit. My shit: from Sol 8, as the label told me. I also have the carefully labelled, vacuum-sealed, freeze-dried shits of my dear crew-mates. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. I now have a nice bucket of these lovely packages sitting here in the middle of the Hab waiting for me._

      _However, there is still work to be done._

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 19]**

      _Martinez would be_ _thrilled_ _to hear that I’ve not only discovered dirt, I’ve conquered it. One-hundred and twenty-six square meters of it, anyway. What was the pristine workspace of the Hab has been cleared away for my huge pile of dirt, which took four days to get into the Hab... Bucket by bucket._

_Let me fill you in on where I’m going with this:_

_Our trip here on the Hermes was one-hundred and twenty-four days, having us arrive at Mars in early November. The Ares III mission itself was going to have us stay on the surface for thirty-one sols. That scheduled us to head back to the Hermes for our voyage back on December 5th._

_The tiny detail that may save my life? American holidays._

_NASA doctors obsessed over every aspect of our trip, especially the thirty-one sols we’d be here on Mars itself. So in order to boost morale or whatever, they sent some special food with us so we could celebrate Thanksgiving while we were on the surface. Neat, right? I know you must be asking, ‘M. Grantaire, what’s that got to do with anything? Aren’t you French?’_

_If you only knew, kids. Right now I’m looking at a package of twelve potatoes. Not just any old freeze-dried ones, but carefully packaged,_ _refrigerated_ _potatoes._

_Vogel and I had fun teasing our dear American crew-mates over the specifics of the holiday itself but right now I’ve never been more thankful. No pun intended._

_I was about to type some sarcastic remark about changing my citizenship to American if I end up not dying but I could practically feel Enjolras combusting from over eighty-million kilometers away._

_This plan of mine may not work but… it’s something._

 

**[VIDEO LOG: SOL 24]**

            _Grantaire stands at a small workspace at the edge of the dirt. The silver bags are scattered on the table and an empty bucket sits on the ground by his feet. He looks up at the camera with a look of pure dread, gesturing to the earplugs that stop his nose._

“I must have done something really, _really_ bad in a previous life.”

            _He shakes his head before cutting open the silver bag in his hands._

“Johanssen, Jesus.”

            _Continuing to cut open the remaining bags, he adds them to the bucket at his feet. Finally he empties a small pitcher of water into the bucket before beginning to stir it. Grantaire recoils for a moment and gags, muttering obscenities in French and English under his breath that the camera doesn’t quite catch._

_After some time he takes the bucket and places it in the center of the dirt, kneeling beside it. He does not acknowledge the camera since he is too busy trying to keep his stomach down. Grantaire begins to add small portions of the bucket’s contents to carefully lined rows in the dirt. He is visibly straining to hold his breath as he works but has to give in eventually._

“Oh... _god_ that’s awful—”

   

**[VIDEO LOG: SOL 30]**

            _Grantaire glances up at the camera as he cuts each potato into quarters._

“Bonjour, and welcome to Cooking on Mars! Today we’ll be working with potatoes. And the next day, and the day after that. Stay tuned after the credits to find out what ration packet I’ll be opening for dinner.”

            _On his hands and knees Grantaire plants each potato into the rows he’d dug on Sol 24. The smell isn’t much better than it was, but he’s gotten used to it… Somewhat._

...

Grantaire was laying in his bunk, absentmindedly turning something in his hands. The television was on but played silently in the background as he thought. 

It was late on Sol 33 and despite how tired he was from planting, he couldn’t sleep. Earlier that evening he had gone through his crew-mates’ personal items in the boxes that were stacked in Vogel’s bunk. Slightly ashamed of himself, Grantaire inspected the contents of each box, and it was far from the careful and respectful way he’d originally packed them. 

Most of the items he was aware of— computers, research logs, mission schedules, basic NASA gear. A couple discoveries stuck out: Commander Lewis’ personal data stick and a cross that Martinez had left. 

Now, as he twirled the wooden cross in his hand, he got an idea. 

...

  **[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 34]**

_The problem is water... I’ve created 126 square meters of soil. But each cubic meter needs 40 liters of water to be farmable. So, I have to make a lot of water. Fortunately, I know the recipe! Take hydrogen, add oxygen, burn._

_I have hundreds of liters of unused Hydrazine from the MDV thanks to Martinez’s impeccable landing skills. If I run the Hydrazine over an iridium catalyst, it’ll separate into N2 and H2... Then I just need to direct the hydrogen into a small area and burn it._

_Luckily, in the history of humanity, nothing bad has ever happened from lighting hydrogen on fire. Ha._

_Believe it or not, the challenge has been finding something that will actually hold a flame. NASA_ _hates_ _fire. Because of the whole “fire makes everyone die in space” thing. So everything we brought with us is flame retardant. With the notable exception of... Martinez’ personal items. I’m sure NASA gave him shit about bringing a wooden cross with him, but I also know Martinez is one stubborn son of a bitch._

_Sorry, Rick. If you wanted privacy when it comes to your crap, you shouldn’t have left me for dead on Mars._

_I chipped the cross using some screwdrivers and pliers. I figure if He exists, He won’t mind, given my present situation._

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 38]**

       _Well, I’ve created a… Something. I don’t even know how to describe it. Basically I’ve used NASA trash bags and duct tape to make a tent with a hose coming out of the top. The plan is to:_

 _1\. Vent pure oxygen into the tent_  
_2\. Light the oxygen on fire_  
_3\. Point fire at wood chips to make a… torch_  
_4\. Use torch to start Hydrazine flow_  
_5\. Voila! Science!_

_If this goes well tomorrow, I’ll have 50 liters of water at the end. Yay, farming!_

 

**[VIDEO LOG: SOL 39]**

           _Grantaire appears in front of the camera with scorches all over himself._

“So… I blew myself up. Best guess? I forgot to account for the excess oxygen I’ve been exhaling when I did my calculations. Because I’m _stupid_.”

          _He closes his eyes for a few moments._

“I’m going to get back to work. Just as soon as my ears stop ringing.” 

  

 **[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 39]** **(CONT’D)**

_Success! I didn’t blow myself up again! I lit the torch again and the Hydrazine started venting. I did wear my EVA helmet just in case, though. When I came back a couple hours later there was condensation all over the plastic I put around the ‘farm.’ It’s nice and humid in here. The water reclaimer is filled, too!_

_I’m going to treat myself to a full ration tonight._

  

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 40]**

_I don’t know what else to do for now, so I started working on my botany experiments and research again. That’s right, I’m_ _working_ _. I can see the headline now: “Dedicated, Overworked NASA Employee Stranded On Mars, Still Does His Job.”_

_I’m going to have so much overtime._

   

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 48]**

_YES!_

_For the last eight sols I’ve been working, eating, and sleeping. Sounds like a normal routine, only back on Earth I wouldn’t get so excited about a little potato plant. I was doing my normal Hab checks when the green caught my eye._

_I’ve named my tiny potato plant “Gav,” in honor of the little sprout himself._

 

* * *

 

**[ January 2, 2036 ]**

Mindy Park was on her third cup of coffee and she still had almost four hours of work left. _I hate night shifts,_ she thought, _not that the general population really likes them, but this is definitely what I’d call a graveyard. I mean honestly, the-_

The alert on her computer jolted her from her internal monologue. It was a notification that the Mars satellite had new images which was exciting, especially at 2:47 in the morning. It was also a little sad: they were the first images of the Ares III mission site since the disaster 43 Sols ago. Mindy opened the image and was just about to add it to the database when she paused and furrowed her brows. Her eyes raced over the picture labeled _Sol 49_.

“What…?” She murmured under her breath. Mindy stared at it for a solid minute and frantically pulled up the most recent image before this, which had been taken on Sol 6 as the storm progressed. After skimming through the mission logs, she looked at the first image for a few moments before going back to the new picture, clicking between them in rapid succession. 

_Oh my god. Oh m—_

Mindy almost knocked over her now-forgotten coffee in order to reach her desk phone. “Security? This is Mindy Park in SatCon. I need the emergency contact number for Dr. Venkat Kapoor. Yes, him...  _Yes,_ it’s an emergency.”

As she waited for him to answer she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the picture. She shut her eyes tightly, trying to shake off the fiery colors of Mars' surface but all she was left with was the image of Benjamin Grantaire’s kind eyes. 

By the time Kapoor arrived her adrenaline had worn off and left a cold, sickening ache in her chest. Little did she know it would be there for a long time.

...

“Can you even imagine what he’s going through? He’s stuck fifty million miles from home. He thinks he’s totally alone and that we gave up on him… What kind of effect does that have on a person’s psychology?” Venkat’s voice trailed off as he stared at the image. Annie still had a hand over her mouth in horror and Teddy was now speechless.

Mindy turned to Venkat, her hands still shaking. “I wonder what he’s thinking,” she said quietly.

 

* * *

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 61]**

_Being a worm must be awesome. It’s like “man, that dirt was great, I wish there was more.” And there always is._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -All credit to the original author, Andy Weir, and to Drew Goddard (who wrote the screenplay). All of the science stuff (and more) comes directly from the book or script
> 
> -I tried to pick my favorite aspects from the book and movie, respectively, and then add a completely different character. Also, I hope I found a good balance between being factual and summarized: the goal was to stick to Mark Watney's science struggles accurately so people who weren't familiar with The Martian before could still follow, and keep it concise at the same time
> 
> -If you haven't read the book I promise it's worth it holy shit. When I read it, Mark Watney's sense of humor totally fit my idea of Grantaire. I mean really, imagine him being able to skype the Amis from space and making nonstop space puns and pranking his crew-mates
> 
> -That last line of wisdom can be found [here](http://just-shower-thoughts.tumblr.com/post/122722265064)
> 
> -Series title comes from [Atlas Hands](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pyue2N1XZ0M) by Benjamin Francis Leftwich


	2. Chapter 2

**[ January 2, 2036 ]**

NASA had twenty-four hours to release the images. _“This is going to be a shitstorm,”_ Annie Montrose had predicted. Before the shitstorm hit the entire world, however, Mitch Henderson had the horrible duty of informing Grantaire’s friends. The friends who only months before had been notified of his death were essentially about to hear it again. 

Mitch thought that informing an astronaut’s loved ones of their death was the hardest thing he would ever do. He had never been required to perform that duty until nearly two months ago. He didn't think it could get any more complicated or worse after that. Everything about this situation was unprecedented.

Of course, that was before. 

_…_

**[ January 3, 2036 ]**

Feuilly hung up his phone in complete shock. When the caller ID had said _Mitch Henderson_ he felt the all-too familiar sensation of grief settle in his chest, but shoved it away and answered. _It’s probably about the memorial service or his belongings,_ he'd initially thought. Now he was frozen. Feuilly belatedly realized Jehan was standing in the doorway, looking at him in concern. 

“Feuilly?”

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He did both. 

_…_

_"This will be a short but very important announcement. After analyzing the most recent satellite imagery from the Ares III mission site on Mars, NASA can confirm that astronaut Benjamin Grantaire is, currently, still alive.”_

_…_

The realization hit Joly like a ton of bricks. One minute he was howling a toast to Grantaire with everyone else— then he considered the logistics and was filled with dread. The doctor part of him had to kick in at some point, and when it did, it felt like finding out R had died all over again.

 _It’s exactly like finding out he’s dead,_ he thought. _Because he will be._

He set down the drink, moving away from the jubilant chaos in the café. Tears prickled in his eyes and he felt like mourning again.   

 _He’s alive, but what they don’t realize yet is that…_  

“Joly! Joly, come back! Have another drink-" Bossuet shouted gleefully before being cut off by another chorus of cheers. 

They were all ecstatic, as they should be. Feuilly’s announcement had made the sorrow disappear from the air. Now the group was celebrating, trying to put the past few months of heartbreak behind them. Grantaire was really, truly _alive_. 

Joly didn’t want to ruin that just yet, so he shot back a tense smile and walked out into the alley before anyone could ask questions. 

Enjolras, however, noticed and waited a few minutes before following him.

“Joly?”

The pediatrician turned to him, hastily wiping away a few tears. “Enjolras. Hey, sorry, I was just out here, uh… I mean…”

“Don’t worry, it’s a lot to take in. I know how you feel,” Enjolras said quietly before coming to stand next to him. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. Do you need me to leave?”

Joly smiled softly at the blonde’s concern. “It’s not that, it’s just that…” He looked back up at Enjolras. _If anyone can handle this,_ _it’s him,_ Joly thought grimly.

“I was thinking about what this really means for R.”

Enjolras noted the change in his tone and frowned. “Us finding out he's alive?”

“I didn’t want to… tell the others just yet. I don’t think they’ve thought about this.” He hesitated for a moment. “I don’t even know how to put this lightly. Grantaire _is_ alive, but with all of the logistics factored in such as the travel time in space as well as the fact that the ship is on its course back, there won't be enough time for them to-”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras asked, his heart already speeding up. "Joly, what are you talking about?" Deep down some part of him knew what Joly was about to say and _exactly_ what it meant, but he still asked, and still wasn't prepared for it. 

Joly put a hand on his arm and spoke in the slow, gentle voice he used for patients. “Grantaire will run out of food, Enjolras. Long before they can get to him.”

He stared blankly back at Joly, words failing him. Finally though, it hit him, and Enjolras crumpled to the floor. He felt ridiculous and guilty for celebrating when Grantaire survived only to starve anyway, _how could I not think about this? What the fuck is wrong with me of course he's not going to be fine, I'm not fine, Grantaire I'm so sorry please come back please just be okay please—_

Joly knelt beside him and rubbed circles on his back as his shoulders hitched with silent sobs. “I know, I know,” he murmured to Enjolras, over and over again until they didn’t sound like real words anymore.

 _Who was I kidding?_ Joly thought, letting the tears fall freely. _No one can possibly handle this_. 

 

* * *

 

**[VIDEO LOG ENTRY: SOL 63]**

“Good _god_ , Commander Lewis.”

          _Grantaire rubs his temples, staring into the camera with tortured expression as the speakers blare music._

“Couldn’t you have packed any other music besides _disco?_ I mean I don’t judge, I mainly had comedy sketches on my data stick. But _this_? This is uncalled for.”

  ****

**[VIDEO LOG ENTRY: SOL 66]**

          _Grantaire glares at the camera as he prepares his ration dinner._

“If the whole ‘starving to death’ thing doesn’t actually end up killing me, the disco will.”

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 67]**

_I’ve got to start thinking long-term._

_The Ares IV mission is four years away, scheduled to land at the Schiaparelli Crater. The pre-supplies are already there, which more importantly means that the MAV for that mission is there, too. When the Hermes returns with the Ares IV crew, I’ll need to be there. However, one problem (out of the six-hundred problems I have right now) is that the Crater is 3,200 kilometers away, and the only form of transportation I have the Martian equivalent of a golf cart._

_I’m kidding, Rover, you’re so much more than that._

_But… the rovers are only designed for short distances for our research. After all, why would the crew need to travel long distances this early in exploration, especially when we have the Hab, MAV, and Hermes for life support? (Side note, I’m sure I could make a great joke out of that. A Hab, a MAV, and a Hermes walk into a bar…)_

_Anyway, the rovers can travel a max distance of thirty-five kilometers before needing to be recharged back here at the Hab. Not to mention I estimate it will take me about fifty Sols to reach the Crater. That means I’ll need live in a Rover for fifty entire Sols, and I'll need to figure out how to preserve enough food and maintain life support for that entire period. Shit_ _..._

_On top of all that, I have to actually establish contact with NASA somehow. If I can’t do that then none of this even matters. No pressure, right?_

_I have some ideas about how I’ll fix the whole distance thing and then I can start planning the life support problem. Unfortunately I can only address one issue at a time. For now, I’m going to ignore the problem in the hope that it'll disappear._

 

**[VIDEO LOG ENTRY: SOL 68]**

“In the face of overwhelming odds, there’s only one thing to do.”

          _He pauses._

“I’m gonna have to science the _shit_ out of this.”

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 68] (CONT’D)**

_So I took the battery from Rover 1 and attached it to Rover 2 with a harness, then strapped the solar panels to the side. Trust me, it looks great. Rover 1 is now a shell._

_Due to that, I now pay my respects to Rover 1. You'll be missed._

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 69]**

_Dear Jehan,_

_You know how you’ve always teased me about the fact that you have better luck growing things than I do?_

_Thought you should know my potato plants are looking_ _great_ _! Maybe you should try getting ditched on a desolate planet if you want your tulips looking better this spring._

_Love, your favorite botanist_

_P.S., I_ _better_ _still be your favorite botanist…_

_P.P.S., Wish you could read this._

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 70]**

_Goddamn it... I forgot to make a joke about it being Sol 69. Truly an opportunity wasted._

_Courf, I let you down._

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 73]**

_I’ve finished the modifications to Rover 2. I’ll be taking it out for a little test drive later tonight to see how the batteries respond to longer use with the solar panels attached to the side._

_Side note: I wonder if the rest of the crew is being subjected to Lewis’s disco music. A fate worse than death… but_ _not_ _ quite as bad as the whole having to farm in your own waste part. Ha._

 

**[VIDEO LOG ENTRY: SOL 73] (CONT’D)**

“As you can see, I’m recording this log from Rover 2.”

_Grantaire glances at the dashboard camera while steering the vehicle. His breath is visible and his lips are turning blue in the subfreezing temperatures._

“It may not be pretty but it’s something. The battery—"

          _He pauses, teeth chattering._

“The battery life is doubled, _but…_ if I use the heater, then it’ll use half the power. And if I _don’t_ use the heater, I’ll slowly succumb to the laws of thermodynamics... I’d love to figure this out but uh, my balls are currently frozen.”

          _He rubs his hands together and closes his eyes for a moment. Finally, Grantaire shakes his head before turning on the heater._

“I’m calling it. Headed back to the Hab.” 

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 75]**

_I think I have a solution to the heating problem!_

_Unfortunately…. It involves me digging up the RTG. What’s that, you might be asking?_

_Well, class, the Radioisotope Thermoelectric Generator is a box of plutonium. Don’t worry, not the kind used in nuclear bombs. This is_ _much_ _worse._

_If I remember my training correctly, one of the lessons was called “Don’t Dig Up The Big Box of Plutonium, R.” …But as Enjolras can attest to, when do I ever pay attention?_

_Now, the RTG is used for the MAV on all the Ares missions. It’s a reliable power source, but obviously very dangerous._

_I get it, I do. The RTG is good for spacecraft, but if it ruptures around humans... no more humans. Which is why Lewis buried it four kilometers away from the Hab (per regulations) and planted a flag so we would never be stupid enough to accidentally go near it again. I’m willing to bet NASA would shit bricks if they knew I was doing the complete opposite._

_But if I manage not to break it, ev_

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 76]**

_I can’t believe I almost typed “everything will be fine.” I mean really, that’s_ _hysterical_ _!!!! I had to shut off the log and laugh at my unchecked optimism._

_Anyway, I’m typing this from the Rover. I am still pretty cold but I’m just moving at a slower rate and allowing the panels to charge during the day so I can use the heater at night while I drive. I won’t have to worry about it on the way back, of course._

_I should arrive at the RTG site tomorrow and then be back at the Hab by Sol 78._

 

**[VIDEO LOG ENTRY: SOL 77]**

“Good news, I’m not cold anymore!”

          _Grantaire’s EVA suit is halfway open and he grins at the camera._

“I mean sure, I could choose to focus on the fact that I’m warm and cozy because of a decaying radioactive isotope right next to me, but why focus solely on the negative?”

          _He shakes his head before letting out a short laugh._

“Fuck, I wish I could see Combeferre’s face if he knew what I was up to. I mean he loves science as much as I do, but we don’t call him _mother hen_ for nothing. In fact if you listen closely, you can actually hear him fretting from here. Sorry, Ferre.”

          _He glances at the RTG for a moment with a concerned frown, sighing as he continues driving._

“I have bigger problems to worry about, anyway. Did you know that this is the _least_ disco song Commander Lewis has on her data stick?”

          _Grantaire presses a button and “Hot Stuff” by Donna Summer plays. He gives the camera a miserable stare._

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 78]**

_The Hab is incredibly spacious after staying in a Rover for three Sols. Trust me… that was not fun. 0/10, would not recommend._

_Of course I expect I'll be in the Rover for over fifty Sols when I head to the Crater, so this trip was only a taste of what I’ll eventually have to do._

_Fuck._

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 79]**

_It’s been forty-nine Sols since_ _I planted the potatoes and tonight, I dug them up. They grew even better than I expected! I now have four-hundred_ _healthy_ _potato plants. I’ll re-seed the smaller ones and add the larger ones to my food supply. All natural, organic, Martian-grown potatoes. You don’t hear that every day, do you? Jehan, I hope you’re proud._

_Now, it’s time to replant and go right back to solving shit. I’m gonna have a potato with ketchup for dinner. Meal of champions._

_…_

Grantaire was in the middle of a much-needed cup of coffee when he froze and suddenly grabbed the map in front of him. He’d been poring over the data for hours trying to come up with something, and finally, the idea hit him. _Of course,_ he thought. _I’ve got it._

He sat back in his chair and sipped his coffee with a grin, feeling slightly more hopeful than he had in weeks.

 

* * *

 

**[ February 2036 ]**

_“How’s he doing? Anything new?”_ Feuilly asked Venkat Kapoor over the phone. Everyone was gathered around the speaker in the the café awaiting the update. 

“Well, Grantaire is still on the move,” Venkat responded. “It’s Sol 90 and he hasn’t changed course since he took the Rover out eight Sols ago.” He and Mindy had been watching the astronaut’s movements via satellite relentlessly. He had also gotten used to being on the line with several of Grantaire’s friends at one time and tried contact them regularly, even if there were no major updates. 

 _“So you still don’t know for sure where he’s going?”_  

“To be completely honest I have no idea what the hell he’s doing. It is possible that he’s started the journey to the Ares IV site, but we can only guess.”

 _“Isn’t that his best option?”_  

“Yeah, it’s his best chance for communication, it’s his best chance for supplies…” Venkat’s voice trailed off. “I just don’t understand his path at the moment. He’s way off course for the Schiaparelli Crater.”

“Unless he’s not taking a direct route,” Mindy commented. “Maybe he’s trying to avoid some obstacle.”

Venkat frowned and zoomed out on the map. “What obstacle? It’s Acidalia Planitia. There’s nothing out there but… but…” His jaw dropped open and he suddenly turned to Mindy with a bright look in his eyes. “I need a map,” he said, scrambling to his feet and racing out of SatCon.

 _“Hello?”_ Feuilly asked worriedly. _“Is everything okay?”_

“Uh, just… hang on. Hang on a few minutes, I’ve got to—" Mindy said apologetically as she hurried after Venkat.

Everyone in the Musain shared uneasy looks. 

…

After nearly twenty minutes of tense silence, everyone jumped at the shrill sound of Feuilly’s phone. He had barely pressed ‘speaker’ before Venkat Kapoor’s excited (and relieved) voice filled the room.

_“I know where he’s going.”_

…

As Venkat boarded the plane to Pasadena, he glanced down at the map he’d taken from the break room. He looked over the hastily drawn sharpie marks that connected the dots and grinned. _You crazy son of a bitch_. 

…

Eponine looked at the attachment NASA had emailed them. She shook her head in confusion before passing the phone to Musichetta. They all had taken turns looking at the picture, yet none of them figured out why he had reacted so intensely. To them, it was just a map: it didn't really tell them anything about Grantaire.

“What did Kapoor say, again?” Bossuet asked Feuilly. 

“The only thing the email said was ‘brilliant’ but… I have no idea what these dots mean,” Feuilly said with a slight frown.

“Well, if he’s excited about it, I guess we should look at the bright side, too,” Courfeyrac added.

Enjolras stared at the phone. The satellite image was extremely blurry, but he tried to envision Grantaire in the Rover. He pictured R how he had last seen him— a cheerful, clever smile on his face, the crinkles around his eyes, his dimples… Thinking about him was almost too bittersweet. 

Grantaire would probably laugh at how sentimental Enjolras had become since he left, and it brought a tiny smile to the blonde’s face. He tried to imagine the inevitable snarky comments if he knew how many times Enjolras went out and looked at the night sky, desperately trying to feel closer to Mars. It was completely insignificant, but some part of him hoped Grantaire knew. 

Enjolras tuned out the chatter of their friends and thought about the last time he talked to Grantaire face to face before the mission…

…

**[ May 2035 ]**

The fact that Grantaire was able to escape mission preparations for two weeks to visit his friends was cause for celebration. Not just any celebration, either— the night before he left, Courfeyrac threw a party worthy of Olympic proportions. 

“You know I can’t drink this close to takeoff, Courf,” Grantaire snickered. “NASA would _kill_ me. All this is wasted on me.”

“You doubt my party planning abilities, R, now take the damn balloon!” Courfeyrac squeaked after inhaling a ridiculous amount of helium, making them all laugh even harder. 

It was a little over a month before the Ares III departure date and once Grantaire flew back to Houston, he wouldn’t be able to return to Paris. Since there were too many restrictions about personnel, only Feuilly and Bahorel would be able to see the launch in person, which left the rest of them to say their goodbyes in person before he left. 

Enjolras was enjoying the party when it hit him that he wouldn’t see Grantaire again until April of the following year. The thought made his head spin, and it wasn’t the alcohol. He wanted to leave and get some air, but then he’d be leaving before he could even say goodbye and…

He sat down and nursed his beer. _Now I’m the brooding drunk,_ he thought.

The rest of the night was a blur, though eventually the party started to wind down. Enjolras watched their friends give Grantaire fierce hugs, only delaying his own inevitable farewell. There were a lot of tears, too. Finally as Eponine and Gavroche gave him one last hug and left, they were alone. Grantaire almost didn’t even realize Enjolras was still there until he turned around and started to clean up.

“Don’t tell me you wanted to hold a meeting before they all left?” He asked with a smirk. 

Enjolras cracked a smile in response. “Nah, just a little dizzy.”

“You've always been a lightweight. Remember that time at Marius’s party when-"

“Oh _god,_ don’t remind me,” he groaned in embarrassment while Grantaire cackled. 

A comfortable silence settled as Enjolras leaned his head on his arm, watching Grantaire pick up decorations from the tables. “Do you want help?” 

“Don’t worry Apollo, I’ve got it. It’s the least I could do after Courf spent so much time on the party,” he said. He started to hum along to the music playing softly in the background as he picked up. 

“Are you scared?” Enjolras asked him unexpectedly, breaking the tranquil atmosphere. His pulse was racing. _Why did I blurt that?_

Grantaire didn’t shy away, though. He looked up at Enjolras with a thoughtful expression. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. I don’t think NASA wants us to show our fear _too_ much since they’re spending all that money promoting the team,” he said with a dark chuckle. 

“What are you most scared of?” 

“The launch,” Grantaire admitted quietly, absentmindedly continuing to clean. “They spend so long on inspections but in the end there’s only so much they can do, you know? We've spent nearly three years training but sometimes _all_ I can focus on is how complex the ship is, how easily something can go wrong during takeoff.”

“And if it does go wrong?” Enjolras asked bluntly. He immediately regretted that, and grimaced. “Sorry, that was morbid. I’m talking too much…”

"No, you’re fine, trust me. Between you and me, I'm getting sick of the same boring questions about how _excited_ I am,” Grantaire said with a wink. His face grew serious. “And if it goes wrong, then it goes wrong. There’s nothing I can do to change that and it’s oddly comforting to accept it.”

Enjolras stared at him. “One more question.”

“Go for it,” Grantaire said, turning to face him. Enjolras hesitated for a moment.

“Enjolras?”

His heart was pounding.  _I know time has flown by since you signed onto the program and I just… I never got the chance to ask if you’d ever thought about… If you and I… If we could ever work? If we could ever be more than friends._

The words were on the tip of his tongue but as he stared at Grantaire he couldn't bring himself to say them. He couldn't broach this subject now, it was too late.

"Nevermind."

He frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, it's just the alcohol," Enjolras mumbled. _It's really not, though._  "I don't know how you used to function like this, 'Taire."

Grantaire gave a rueful smile. "Alas, I was far more young and vigorous way back when. Christ, what's it been? Four years? Can't really indulge like I used to. I can't say I'm all that sad about it, though. Guess I grew up."

He eventually set down the cleaning rag and plopped down into the seat next to Enjolras. They sat quietly for several minutes and watched the condensation drip down the forgotten beer. 

Enjolras rotated in his seat ever so slightly and drank in the sight of Grantaire, knowing he should probably stop staring, but...  _I can't stop looking at him and it kind of hurts._

“I miss Paris.” Grantaire turned to casually meet his gaze, not noticing how long Enjolras had been looking at him. “I miss being here… After this is all over, I don't think I'll stay in Houston. I feel like I've been gone way too long.”

“Yeah?” Enjolras asked. He still hadn't looked away.

“Yeah.”

Finally the  _buzz_ of Enjolras's phone broke their eye contact, and Grantaire let out a sigh when he glanced at his watch.

"Just don't tell NASA yet. They think they can take me from ESA for good."

"My lips are sealed."

Grantaire burst out laughing. "Enjolras, that's physically _impossible_ for you." 

He laughed too, despite himself. "I'm actually going to miss your snarky comments while you're in space."

"Aw, really? I could have sworn my comments were your number one source of irritation. It's why I keep them up, too."

"No, they grew on me a while back," Enjolras said, smiling wider. "And I hope you don't exclude your crew from the snark."

“I can't promise I won't save it all for the first meeting when I get back,” Grantaire chuckled. After a few moments his mouth twitched up into a sly grin. “But now _,_ I'm going to take you up on your earlier offer… You’re gonna help me clean all this up so I can go home and finish packing.” 

Enjolras rolled his eyes fondly and took Grantaire’s outstretched hand.  

…

**[ February 2036 ]**

_To Grantaire’s friends,_

_I write this email to better explain what I discovered from the satellite image yesterday. You all deserve to get this information before the media does, and luckily it’s not bad news. I’m almost certain of where Grantaire is going, and more importantly, what he’s planning._

_In late 1996 we launched an exploratory spacecraft to the surface of Mars. It was an unmanned mission; a robotic rover that was designed to conduct experiments that analyze atmosphere and geology. The vehicle, designed by Jet Propulsion Laboratory, landed in ’97. It operated successfully for three months. Communications ended up failing, most likely due to the surface temperature’s effects on the battery. JPL attempted to restore contact for five months, although the mission was eventually terminated._

_I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m giving you this history lesson of sorts… This failed mission could be a game changer._

_Grantaire i_ _s going for Pathfinder._

_We believe he’s going to retrieve the spacecraft from the original site. We believe he can (hopefully) fix the vehicle to make contact despite the technical damage. Right now I’m in Pasadena at JPL with the original members for the mission. They have the rover replica and are working nonstop to ensure it can receive any signal that Grantaire manages to establish._

_I’ll keep you all posted. Stay optimistic._

_Sincerely, V. Kapoor_

 

* * *

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 92]**

_Pathfinder. Nothing represents my situation better. It’s just a piece of junk, really… And I’m traveling over twenty Sols to get the said piece of junk that my entire goddamn life now depends on._

_And I thought I had it rough when I was a teenager! Seventeen year old me must be laughing his ass off right now, but he can go screw himself, because this piece of junk is hopefully salvageable… And hopefully can be found._

_I’m currently in Rover 2, traveling to the original landing location. Should arrive onsite tomorrow. I’ve been traveling since Sol 82 and let me tell you, living in this thing is even worse than I thought before. The RTG trip? That was nothing compared to this. First of all, having to relieve myself in a bucket_ _inside_ _the Rover for twenty-plus Sols is at the very top of my "Fuck This" list. I also have to listen to disco the entire time and eat my potatoes raw. Oh, and there's more: I’m working with the same map images taken from 1996, which is basically the fucking Stone Age compared to every other map I use. Life can’t get much better than this, right? _

_And what if I don’t even find it? If I remember correctly, the last time Pathfinder was even spotted by satellites was in 2007, and nearly three decades later it's probably completely buried. It's not like I can turn on a GPS tracker, either._

_On the bright side—_

_Just kidding! There is no bright side here._

 

**[VIDEO LOG ENTRY: SOL 92] (CONT’D)**

“Fuck you, Mars.”

…

Double checking the coordinates on the monitor for what felt like the thousandth time, he looked around the empty terrain with another frown.  _This should be it,_ Grantaire thought. _What am I supposed to do now? Damn it._ He tentatively walked around the valley in circles looking for any sign of the lander.

It had been several hours of searching in vain, and he decidedly stormed back to the rover. Either Pathfinder was too far gone or he wasn’t even in the right place. 

 _“Fuck!”_ Grantaire yelled angrily, kicking at the ground in frustration. His foot caught on something— he nearly fell face first into the dirt, and he whirled around in shock, desperately scrutinizing the spot he’d tripped over. It wasn’t even dirt, it was…

“A parachute,” he murmured to himself in disbelief. Grantaire’s face lit up and he laughed, his temper dissolving. He started to run his fingers through his hair in relief when his hand bumped into the helmet. _I’m an idiot,_ he thought, shaking his head, but in that moment he felt as light as air.

…

For over an hour Grantaire dug into the area where the parachute disappeared into the ground. Shovel after shovel of bright red soil… His mind was numb. He was unable to form a coherent thought and was completely exhausted, but kept digging. 

R couldn’t even estimate how many shovels of dirt he’d gone through when the _clang_ of the shovel against metal jolted him awake. He froze for a second before carefully reaching out and brushing his hand over the metal plate.

 _Hello there,_ he thought, grinning.

...

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 107]**

_I’ve been working on Pathfinder since I got back to the Hab three Sols ago. I was really hoping I could just press a few buttons and it would work, but you know me. I’ve basically inherited Bossuet’s luck._

_It does look like NASA was right as to why the battery malfunctioned, so hopefully there won’t be too many surprises later on. So far I’ve taken spare Rover parts and poked around at the side panel. The battery obviously needs to function over a certain temperature, so I hooked up the heater from Rover 1 and powered it on last night._

_One scary thought, though: even if I get this thing working, who’s to say the contact will even be established? I mean it’s not like they’re listening for it. The only way they_ _would_ _be is if presumed-dead astronauts repair broken probes to make contact on a semi-regular basis, but what do I know? Maybe it’s happened. Whatever._

_My best shot is that the radar from Deep Space Network or SETI picks up on the signal and alerts JPL. They would then triangulate the signal and angle Pathfinder’s antenna, which is how I would know it’s working. And so far… nothing._

_I’m trying to keep positive and not obsess over it. There are several factors that could affect why it hasn’t turned on yet, from the thin atmosphere to Earth only being visible during the day… It’s morning now, so that gives me the entire day to wait for something._

_Fuck this, I’m too impatient. Going back outside to check on it._

…

Grantaire checked the time on his EVA suit monitor and sighed. He’d been out there for hours, repeatedly inspecting the heater and cable connections as his patience wore thin. Finally he decided to go back to the Hab before he wasted any more of the suit's oxygen.

Just as he stood up, the usual silence was broken by the _whirring_ of a machine— he stared at Pathfinder in complete shock as the antenna rotated, pointing at a very specific angle in the sky… directly at _Earth_. Grantaire’s heart was beating so fast he thought it would fly out of his chest.

 _Holy shit,_ he thought. _They know I’m alive. Holy shit holy shit holy sh-_

  

* * *

  

PATHFINDER LOG: SOL 0 

BOOT SEQUENCE INITIATED 

TIME 00:00:00 

LOSS OF POWER DETECTED

LOADING OS... 

 

PERFORMING HARDWARE CHECK: 

INT. TEMPERATURE: - 34C 

EXT. TEMPERATURE: NONFUNCTIONAL 

BATTERY: FULL

HIGAIN: OK

LOGAIN: OK

METEOROLOGY: NONFUNCTIONAL

ASI: NONFUNCTIONAL

IMAGER: OK

SOLAR A: NONFUNCTIONAL

SOLAR B: NONFUNCTIONAL

SOLAR C: NONFUNCTIONAL 

HARDWARE CHECK COMPLETE 

 

BROADCASTING STATUS

LISTENING FOR TELEMETRY SIGNAL... 

LISTENING FOR TELEMETRY SIGNAL... 

LISTENING FOR TELEMETRY SIGNAL

 

**SIGNAL ACQUIRED…**

 

* * *

 

**[ March 1, 2036 ]**

“Hey, something’s coming in!” The technician, Tim, shouted without warning. Everyone crowded in the JPL facilities garage was jolted from their brief naps and burst into cheers and applause after twenty days of continuous work. The hastily assembled team was able to recreate the old software for the Pathfinder replica, bridging a connection between the forty-year old machine and the modern connection of Deep Space Network. 

Venkat Kapoor and Bruce Ng were the first two people to reach the computer station. It was three in the morning, but they were wide awake. They all watched as the connection code loaded on the monitor. Venkat let out a relieved sigh. “Good work, Bruce.”

“I’m just the director,” Bruce said absentmindedly. “What now, Tim?” 

The technician looked over the connection details for a few seconds. “We sent the signal back automatically and it’ll take eleven minutes to get there. Pathfinder will then begin return transmissions, so it should be twenty-two minutes before we hear anything else.”

“Venkat has a doctorate degree in physics, you don’t need to explain it to him.”

“You never know.” 

“What else?” Venkat asked, interrupting the mild bickering. 

“Well it says the imager is working. As soon as I received the high-gain response, I directed the rover to take a panoramic image.”

Venkat pulled out his phone, barely taking his eyes away from the computer monitor as he typed out a quick message to Grantaire’s friends in Paris.

_Pathfinder is a go. Stay tuned to coverage._

 

* * *

 

Grantaire shook himself from his frozen state of astonishment and rushed to the Hab. The depressurization process in the airlock seemed even slower than normal. _Come on, come on. Hurry up!_

He bolted into the main area a few minutes later, frantically looking around. His eyes finally settled on his crew-mates’ boxes of personal items stacked in the bunks, and he immediately ran over and began to tear the lids off. Taking them to his workspace, he began to scribble a message on them in a frenzy.

 

* * *

 

“Incoming,” Tim announced half an hour later. Everyone craned their necks to get a better look at the screen as the picture loaded strip by strip.  

Venkat’s hands shook as he started to make out the image. “I see the surface,” he murmured as the lines filled in excruciatingly slow. 

“There’s the Hab… and more Hab… Wait, what’s that?” Bruce asked, pointing to the center of the screen. They all broke out into excited chatter as the image loaded even further.

Three handwritten notes were attached to metal rods in the center of the panorama.

“What does it say?” Someone demanded from the back of the group.

Venkat squinted. “It says ‘are you receiving?’ With ‘yes’ and ‘no’ signs right next to it.” He laughed in relief. _“Are we receiving?_ Hell yes, we’re receiving. Point the camera, Tim,” he said over the team’s applause. “And take a panoramic image every ten minutes!”

 

* * *

 

After thirty-two minutes Pathfinder’s camera slowly started to turn. Grantaire jumped up and followed the movement, his heart racing. When it stopped rotating he glanced back at the rover as if to say _here, right?_

 _“YES!”_ He howled, leaping into the air in exhilaration. 

_…_

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 107] (CONT’D)**

_They said yes!!!!!!!! Holy shit!!!_

_Oh god, I’ve got to calm down, I still have more problems to solve_

_Now we’ve got to figure out how to have complex conversations. Yes/no questions every half hour using a still-frame camera from 1996 just isn’t going to cut it. Luckily… the camera rotates 360 degrees! Not-so-luckily, making a sign for each letter of the alphabet would get too complicated._

_So, ASCII and hexadecimals to the rescue. I figured one of my crew-mates kept an ASCII table around here, and I was right… Johanssen, you nerd. Your laptop was like the shrine of loneliness. _

_I’m going to make cards for 0-9 and A-F. That means seventeen cards (including the question mark) to place around the camera... much better than the entire alphabet. Then they can ask questions instead of only indicating yes/no._ _Time to get to work._

_…_

Grantaire marked down the last character as Pathfinder’s camera stopped turning. It had taken forever to get their response and his head hurt, but his excitement was overpowering any exhaustion. He went back to the Hab to look over the ASCII table and translated the message:

  **H O W  A L I V E ?**

He sat back and grinned a little. _I can’t believe I’m this psyched about a nine-character message. Geez._

 

* * *

 

“The next picture is in, guys,” Bruce called out to the group at JPL. Venkat rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as the image loaded. Grantaire had written a short response on a sign.

 _“Impaled by antenna, bio-monitor destroyed. No further physical problems. Hab components functional. Crew had reason to think me dead. Not their fault,”_ Venkat read out to everyone. “Alright, tell Annie she’s got our okay to update the media. They’ve probably been shitting themselves for the last hour, let’s start releasing the live communication.”

 

* * *

 

**[VIDEO LOG ENTRY: SOL 107] (CONT’D)**

“Now that we can have more complicated conversations, the geniuses at NASA have sent me instructions on how to hack Rover 2 so it can talk to Pathfinder. If I hack a _tiny_ bit of the code, NASA can link it to Pathfinder’s broadcasting frequency, and then we can type back and forth.”

          _Grantaire held up the instructions he’d scribbled down and waved them in front of the camera._

“As you can see, I’m in the rover already. The operating system is booting up and then I can figure out how to do this.”

          _He hesitated for a moment and smiled shyly, nervously running his fingers through his hair._

“I’m really, _really_ excited about this. Fuck, I hope this works.”

 

* * *

  

**[ March 2, 2036 ]**

_“We are live in Pasadena where JPL has begun establishing communication with stranded astronaut Benjamin Grantaire. I’m here with Venkat Kapoor, Director of Mars Missions for NASA. Venkat, tell us more about this development.”_

_“Well, for the last few weeks we’ve been tracking Grantaire’s movements by satellite. We figured out he was making plans to retrieve Pathfinder, so JPL immediately started preparing the replica for any connection he could set up. Yesterday he was able to establish a signal and we were able to take a panoramic image. Between three and four this morning we started communicating with him directly.”_

_“And how much contact have you had since then?”_

_“At the moment, not so much. For us to send the characters for a message, Grantaire to write a response, and us to get the image back, it takes a little over half an hour. Right now he’s working on bypassing Rover 1's code to establish live communication. In fact, he should be completing it very soon.”_

_“Can you tell us NASA’s next move?”_

_“Right now our top priorities are securing communication and verifying his status. We plan to— Ah, I’m sorry to cut this short but I’ve got to be in the control room immediately, my apologies…”_

_“You’ve just heard from NASA’s Venkat Kapoor. Stay tuned for live coverage of the first communication with stranded astronaut Grantaire on Mars.”_

_..._

Everyone was camped out in front of the television anxiously awaiting the update. It was the middle of the afternoon in Paris, and they'd all been completely on edge since Kapoor had sent them an update the previous evening.

Combeferre paced in the front of the room, wringing his hands together.

“Ferre, sit down. You’re making Bahorel nervous just watching you,” Jehan said, glancing at the TV. Bahorel cracked a tight smile in response but said nothing. 

They all expressed their worry in different ways: Eponine looked calm and collected but if you looked closely, her hands shook and her eyes darted to the TV every few seconds. Combeferre paced. Jehan absentmindedly doodled but glanced at the TV so much they gave up and closed their notebook in frustration. Bahorel simply closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. Bossuet refreshed the news on his phone so many times it crashed. Courfeyrac kept going to the counter and back to his seat but never got anything. Cosette held Marius and Eponine’s hands tightly in her own, and neither of them complained when she held their fingers too tightly. Feuilly repeatedly checked his phone for any messages from Kapoor and grew more nervous each time nothing came up. Musichetta kept making tea and Joly was too tense to notice the three cups already in front of him. Enjolras said nothing to anyone— his mouth was set in a grim line and he barely looked away from the TV. Even Montparnasse was there, playing cards with Gavroche. 

They were all anxious— although it wasn’t like watching the original launch. Back then they were all panicked knowing something could go wrong. This time as they crowded in front of the TV, they were grasping for _anything,_ good or bad, because their worry had already consumed them months ago. The desperation could be felt in the air. 

Everyone was roused from their thoughts when the coverage came back on. 

_“I’m being told that the communication is online. We should get the live transcript as soon as possible. Keep in mind that the responses will take around ten minutes and the…”_

They all held each other. They waited. 

 

* * *

 

_**[07:13] JPL:** Grantaire, this is Venkat Kapoor. We’ve been watching you since Sol 49. The whole world has been rooting for you. _

_Amazing job, getting Pathfinder. We’re working on rescue plans._

_In the meantime we’re putting together a supply mission to keep you fed until Ares IV arrives._

Grantaire watched the screen in awe as the message fully loaded. A sob escaped his chest without warning, and he blinked through the tears several times to see the message. He read it six, seven, eight times… It still wasn’t enough. Within a couple of minutes he’d memorized it. 

After wiping away a few more tears, he let out a short, relieved laugh and composed his response. _I’m actually talking to someone,_ he thought as he typed. 

 

* * *

 

 ** _GRANTAIRE:_** _Glad to hear it. Really looking forward to not dying._

Everyone in the Musain cheered and cried when the message came up on the news coverage. For what felt like the first time in forever, their tears were truly happy, and despite everything else that remained they basked in the momentary relief. 

They were so relieved, in fact, that it took a few seconds to notice that there was another message. 

_**GRANTAIRE:** How’s the crew? What did they say when they found out I was alive?_

After nearly fifteen minutes with no response from JPL they started to grow uneasy, wondering if something was wrong with the connection already. Finally the transcript loaded. 

_**JPL:** We haven’t told the crew you’re alive yet. We need them to concentrate on the mission. _

“What the _fuck?”_ Enjolras demanded after a few moments. Kapoor hadn’t even told them that. 

“Why would they not tell them? That’s so… it’s just…” Combeferre was at a loss for words.

“Heartbreaking,” Musichetta said quietly. The next response came in not long after that. 

 ** _GRANTAIRE:_** _What the fuck??? What the fuck is wrong with you?_

_**JPL:** Benjamin, please watch your language. Everything you type is being broadcast live all over the world. _

_**GRANTAIRE:** Look! A pair of boobs! -> (.Y.)_

“Yep, that’s definitely him,” Eponine chuckled darkly as they all rolled their eyes, laughing. The live coverage ended shortly after that— no doubt NASA’s attempt at preventing a public relations issue. Everyone immediately launched into a heated discussion about the update, furious that the crew still thought Grantaire was dead. Of course he'd had reacted the way he did… None of them were shocked at the ridiculous reply he’d sent, and they knew it was likely because he was far more upset than he’d let on. NASA had gotten off lightly with only a couple of F-bombs and some vulgar text. 

Pride surged through Enjolras when he thought about Grantaire’s bold response. Knowing the two of them were feeling the same rage even though there were eighty-million kilometers of space between them was almost comforting. 

 

* * *

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 110]**

_Now that NASA can talk to me they won’t shut up. They want constant updates on_ _everything_ _. (Not that I’m complaining about having someone to talk to, of course.) You should hear the shit they say about my potatoes, though. A room full of people back on Earth trying to micromanage my crops… They’re trying to tell me, a_ _botanist_ _, what to do. I can give them whatever response I want and no one can stop me!_

 _I mean, I don’t want to come off as arrogant or anything, but I am_ _the best botanist on this planet_ _, so…_

_The best part about the ability to communicate will be the data dumps, like when we were on the Hermes. Today they’re sending the first one and I’m crossing my fingers that I actually get to hear from my friends. And not some “passed through ESA and NASA" messages, but actual emails from them._

_I don’t really know what to expect, to be honest. Since Sol 7 I just assumed no one knew, so I’ve been addressing my crew and friends in the log with that mindset. And knowing that my friends know I’m alive up here, knowing they’ve been thinking about me… It’s reassuring, but scary. I don’t know what they’re gonna say in the message. I have no idea how I’ll respond... I just have no idea._

_Luckily I’m, you know, alone on a planet fifty-million miles away, so no one can see my initial reaction._

_Nothing is lucky about this but hey, I’ll take what I can get._

...

Grantaire rubbed his freezing hands together and checked the time with a slight frown. It was late— far later than he’d wanted to be outside the Hab, even as he sat in the rover. While the RTG was helpful, the vehicle still got extremely cold without it running. He refused to go inside, however, and anxiously awaited the data dump to finish loading.  

“Come on,” Grantaire muttered. When the logo finally came up on the screen, he grinned. _“There_ we go.”

He skimmed through the first half of the emails, not even bothering to open them. He scrolled past messages from various well-wishers, the French and American presidents, prime ministers… Finally, he did a double take and stopped on one subject line: _“Hey, StaRman.”_ His face lit up at that; Kapoor must have passed along his complaint of disco to his friends. 

His hands shook as he opened the email...

 ...

_Grantaire,_

_It’s about damn time they let us talk to you! Hope you like the subject line, by the way. Combeferre was appointed "honorary space pun master” in your absence, and he was pretty adamant about that one._ _This is Joly typing, if you were curious. Everyone is sitting right next to me, we just figured the email would be about ninety pages too long if we all wrote. Then we couldn’t decide who got to type but I won “rock, paper, scissors,” so…_

_There’s a lot to say, and there’s a lot I don’t need to get into for now, but for starters… You have no idea how happy we are to be sending this message. If someone had told us this would be possible last November I probably would have punched them in the face. But you’re alive, and reading this, and hopefully not wishing Jehan was writing it instead. Oops, now they’re laughing._

_We think about you all the time. Even before we knew you were alive up there we thought about you every moment of every day. Damn, even I’m starting to tear up with everybody else, but we wanted you to know that above anything. We miss you every minute of every day. _

_NASA has to talk to you about important survival/science stuff, but in this email, we’re just gonna talk to you if that’s okay._

_I wouldn’t say you’ve missed too much, but there’s some news that hasn't gotten to you since you were on the Hermes. Good old Pontmercy finally proposed to Cosette! That was only a couple of days into your surface mission, so we’d planned to tell you when you were headed home. They haven’t decided on a date, but they’re instructing me to tell you that they’re waiting until you can be here to officiate. Oh, now Gavroche is saying we’re all going to meet you on Mars and have the wedding up there._

_Gavroche got first-place in his science competition, by the way! You’d be so proud, he made a model solar system that everyone was seriously impressed with. (Aw, he’s blushing now.) Not only was it artistically stunning thanks to your tutelage, but it was accurate, too. If you look closely, he glued a tiny figure onto the surface of Mars, so in a way, you're right here. We hung the project in the Musain._

_We’re still infuriated about the crew thing. You were right to react the way you did. Supposedly NASA is censoring emails from their family members so they won’t find out about you! Can you believe that garbage? (I’d be swearing more, but they told us to cool it with the profanities. Apparently you’re already giving them enough trouble as it is…)_

_Everything has politics behind it. I really can’t imagine how much pressure Enjolras could put on them if he worked there. Regardless, it’s not right. Your crew should know and we’re going to do anything we can to persuade NASA to tell them._

_Kapoor is keeping us in the loop, but even if he wasn’t, there’s a daily news segment on your situation. I can tell you’re rolling your eyes right about now, but I think it’s the number one TV segment worldwide. They broadcasted your first conversation live (NASA wasn’t kidding about that) and we were on the floor laughing when you started swearing. I’m pretty sure Bahorel is going to get your response tattooed at some point._

_Don’t really know what else to say that you don’t already know. We love you. We miss you. We believe in you. And stop rolling your eyes._

_I don’t know if you’re able to see Earth in the sky at all but just know we’re thinking of you. Talk to you soon._

_Love, everyone_

…

By the time Grantaire read the email for the fourth time, tears were rolling down his face. He read it several more times before his breath hitched in his chest as he prepared to type a response. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, desperately wanting to message them back immediately... 

Instead, he shut the computer off, put his head in his hands, and cried. 

He sobbed so hard his chest ached. Half an hour later, though, he felt better— like a tiny bit of the weight had lifted from his shoulders. An infinitesimal part of him felt a little less alone.

…

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 111]**

_I didn’t really know what to expect from the email but it was exactly what I needed to hear. No message from NASA will ever come close to that. I couldn’t ask for better friends._

_I'm still probably not going to make it out of this but some part of me is okay with that. Just knowing that_ ~~the world~~ _my_ _friends_ _know what’s going on is more comforting than they could possibly know._

_Fuck, I’m getting a little misty-eyed now. Mars is turning me into an emotional mess. I better go listen to some disco before I forget how to be an asshole._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Credit for all of the science stuff (and excerpts of dialogue) goes to the author, Andy Weir, and the screenplay writer, Drew Goddard
> 
> -For those who haven't read the book, the "Look! A pair of boobs!" thing did in fact happen
> 
> -I hope the flashback established the Grantaire/Enjolras pining a little better
> 
> -I know there's several different formats, especially with the conversations, so I hope it's not too busy. Bear with me
> 
> -StaRman? Get it?


	3. Chapter 3

**[ SOL 6 ]**

“In grid section fourteen twenty-eight the particles appear predominantly coarse, but as we move to twenty-nine the particles are much finer. Should be ideal for chem analysis,” Grantaire called as he poured more soil in the test tube. 

“Aw, hear that, everyone? Ben just discovered dirt. Alert the media,” Martinez's voice snickered through the headset. 

“What’s your job today, Rick? Confirming the MAV is still upright?”

“Hey, visual inspection of equipment is _imperative_ to mission success,” he said. “And yes, the MAV is still upright.”

“Grantaire, you keep leaving your channel open... which leads to Martinez responding, which leads to us listening, which leads to me being annoyed,” Lewis warned them from across the barren field. 

Grantaire smirked as he bagged another soil sample. “Martinez, Commander Lewis would like you to please shut your smart mouth.”

“We would prefer that you use a different adjective to describe Martinez’s mouth,” Beck added smugly over the radio.

“Did Beck just _insult_ me?” Martinez asked, feigning injury with a wide grin. 

“That’s _Doctor_ Beck, actually. And yes.”

“I’d be happy to turn their radios off from here, Commander. Just say the word,” Johanssen cut in, smirking from her computer station.

“Johanssen, constant communication is the hallmark of a—"

“Shut them off.” Lewis ordered, effectively cutting off Grantaire’s wisecrack. He threw his arms up in mock surrender. “I would apologize for my countrymen, Vogel, but I can't claim that one,” she sighed.

“It’s okay, Commander… At least I do not have to claim him either. France does, though,” Vogel chuckled. He glanced up just as Grantaire gave him the finger from across the research area. “How many samples do we need?”

“Seven. One hundred grams each.” 

The team continued gathering their fieldwork, working far more efficiently without Martinez and Grantaire’s banter. After half an hour, Johanssen interrupted the radio silence. “Uh… Commander? You should come inside. You’re gonna want to see this.”

“What is it?” 

“A mission update. Storm warning.”

“I saw the warning in this morning’s briefing, we’ll be inside long before it hits.”

“Yeah uh, they’ve upgraded the storm to severe,” Johanssen said, an unusual twinge of worry in her voice. “It’ll be here a _lot_ sooner than we thought.”

Grantaire stood up and looked at the horizon, eyes widening at the dark storm approaching.

…

“...twelve-hundred kilometers in diameter, bearing 24.41 degrees...” Johanssen read out to them. “That’s headed right towards us.”

“Based on current escalation, estimate a force of…” Lewis’s voice trailed off as she looked over the report.  _“Eighty-six hundred Newtons?”_

“Holy shit,” Beck exclaimed. 

“Well, what’s the abort force?” Grantaire asked. 

“Seventy-five hundred.”

Martinez shook his head grimly. “Anything above that and the MAV could tip.” 

“So we’re scrubbed?” Vogel asked Lewis. 

She was silent for a few moments with her mouth set in a tight line. “Prep for abort.” .

“Maybe it won’t be as bad as they say…” Vogel said. 

“They are estimating with a margin of error,” Beck chimed in. “We _could_ wait it out.”

Grantaire nodded in agreement, frantically looking to Lewis. “Let’s wait it out.” 

Lewis continued to stare at the update, her frown deepening. 

"Come on, Lewis. We can wait this out, I know it."

“Commander?” Johanssen asked after a minute of silence. 

“Begin emergency departure.” 

Grantaire’s heart raced, desperate to continue the mission. _It’s only Sol 6, we can’t leave yet,_ he thought. He took a deep breath. “Commander—"

“We’re scrubbed,” Lewis said with a note of finality, meeting his eyes. “That’s an order, Grantaire.” He gave a short nod in response. 

_Fuck,_ he thought as he scrambled to get his gear on. _Fuck._

_…_

“Visibility is almost zero. If you get lost, home in on my suit’s telemetry,” Lewis called to Vogel, Beck, Johanssen, and Grantaire as they stood inside the airlock. They could barely hear her over the howling wind. “The wind is going to be rougher away from the Hab, be ready!” She waited a few moments to verify Martinez had made it to the MAV before she wrenched the door open. The gusts of wind nearly knocked them off their feet. Grantaire craned his neck from the back of the airlock; he could hardly see Lewis. He braced himself and followed his team into the storm. 

The lights from the MAV were just visible through the debris and dirt. _How the hell did Martinez manage to get over there?_ Grantaire thought as he slowly walked behind Johanssen. 

The gears started to turn in his brain. “Hey!” He shouted to them over the radio. “I think we can stop the MAV from tipping!” 

_“How?”_ Lewis yelled back. 

“We could use cables from the solar farm as guy lines!” Grantaire called to her. “The rovers could be anchors… The trick would be getting the line around the—" 

He was suddenly cut off and let out a ragged howl of pain as flying debris came out of nowhere. Johanssen turned to him just as he disappeared into the storm, her hand hopelessly outstretched. She let out a horrified scream. 

_“GRANTAIRE-"_

“What happened?” Commander Lewis demanded. 

“Something hit him!” 

“Grantaire, report!” Lewis bellowed, squinting into the darkness for any sign of him. _“GRANTAIRE, REPORT!”_

“Commander, he’s offline!” Beck shouted as he scanned the biomonitor. “Before we lost telemetry, his decompression alarm went off-"

_“Shit!”_ she said. “Johanssen, where did you last see him?”

“He was right behind me and then he was just gone,” Johanssen responded, trying not to let her panic rise. “He flew off due west!”

“Okay... okay…” Lewis took deep breaths, her mind racing. “Martinez, continue to prep the MAV for launch! Vogel and Beck, hone in on Johanssen.”

“I can’t see anything!” Vogel shouted. “Chris, how long can someone survive decompression?”

“Less than a minute…” Beck said, his voice cracking even over the roar of the storm. 

“Line up and walk west!” Lewis ordered. “Take small steps, he’s probably prone. We don’t want to step over him.”

The four of them fought against the wind as they slowly trekked through the storm. Martinez radioed them from the MAV with a slight note of panic in his voice.  _“Commander, the MAV’s got a seven-degree tilt and it’ll tip at 12.3.”_

“Copy that.”

“Grantaire’s bio-monitor sent something before going offline,” Beck told them as he looked at the screen again. “Blood pressure zero, pulse rate zero, temperature normal.” 

“Temperature _normal?”_ Vogel asked. 

“It takes a while for the... the body to cool…” Beck stuttered. They all stared into the darkness in shock. 

_“Guys, it’s tilting at 10.5 degrees now, with gusts pushing it to 11.”_ Martinez’ voice crackled over the radio, cutting through the agonizing silence. 

“Copy,” Lewis said firmly. “Everyone get to the airlock, prep for launch.”

“What about you, Commander?” 

“I’m searching a little more. Get moving… Martinez, if it starts to tip, launch.” 

_“You really think I’m leaving you behind?”_

“That’s an order. You three, get to the ship now.” The rest of them hesitated. _“Go!”_

Lewis turned back to the storm, fighting against the wind as she continued west. _Come on, where are you?_ She thought, grasping for any sign of Grantaire. She continued searching for several minutes, ignoring Martinez’ warnings as she desperately thought of any way to locate her crew-member. Every idea she came up with was in vain.

_“We’re tilting 11.8 degrees. One good gust and we’re tipping…”_ Martinez finally alerted her. _"I can stall it for a few minutes but I don't know how long it'll last."_

_“Commander, I know you don’t want to hear this, but Grant-… He’s dead. I’m sorry.”_ Beck said.

“Copy that,” Lewis said a few moments later, her voice uneven. She began to stumble toward the ship. “On my way.” 

Inside the MAV, Martinez scowled at Beck. “What the  _hell_ is wrong with you, man?”

“My friend just died. I don’t want my Commander to die, too,” Beck said grimly, blinking through tears. 

They were all silent as Lewis boarded and Martinez prepared to launch. Take off was deafening but Johanssen’s sobs could still be heard over the rush of the ship-- they tried not to look at the empty seat beside Vogel. By the time the MAV reached the Martian atmosphere, the silence of space was more overwhelming than they'd ever experienced it.

...

**[ March 8, 2036 ]**

Beck put down the pencil, his hands shaking too much to actually get any paperwork done. Not that he could concentrate much, anyway. He glanced around the laboratory on the Hermes and his eyes settled on the botany samples at one of the desks. As he walked over to Grantaire’s station he felt tears prickle in his eyes. For the hundredth time that afternoon, Mitch Henderson’s words rushed through his mind. _I have some news…_

“I’ll say,” Beck murmured bitterly. He couldn’t stop thinking about the video message: every detail of Mitch’s face as he told them, the rush of relief he'd first felt, the look on Lewis’s face. _The guilt._ He finally tore his eyes away from the plants and put his face in his hands. 

Minutes, maybe hours, passed before the gentle knocking at the door roused him. “Can I join you?” Lewis asked, her voice a little hoarse. 

Beck gave a small smile. “Of course, Commander.” She sat down next to him and opened her mouth like she was going to ask something, but she said nothing and stared at the plants.  

“Yeah, me too,” Beck sighed. 

They sat in silence for a while, unsure of where to start. Beck couldn’t stop thinking about what Mitch had said. _There’s no subtle way to put this…_

More knocking. 

_Grantaire is still alive._

“Hey, guys,” Martinez said in an unusually subdued manner. He hesitated at the door before Lewis pulled up a chair for him. 

_He’s alive and healthy._

“You okay, Rick?” Lewis asked, looking back at the plants as the pilot sat down. 

_We found out two months ago and decided not to tell you._

“As good as everyone else, I guess.” 

_We’re telling you now because we finally have communication with him and a viable rescue plan._

“How about you, Doc?” Martinez asked him. Beck couldn’t tear his eyes away from the plant samples. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, like Mitch’s words were choking him…

_It’s not your fault._

“Beck?” 

_He stresses that every time it comes up._

_“Beck.”_ Lewis’s voice shook him out of his thoughts. “Hey, are you oka-"

“No, I’m _not.”_ He snapped, immediately regretting his tone. He turned to Lewis with a pained expression. “I’m sorry, Commander, I just…”

She looked at him and softened her brows. “We get it.”

Martinez had nothing to add and put a hand on Beck’s shoulder. The three of them turned back to look at Grantaire's plants, the unspoken words hanging in the air. 

There was a soft knock and a tiny giggle at the way their heads turned in sync. Johanssen and Vogel stood in the doorway, balancing a thermos of coffee and a few cups. “Partying without us?” Her smile was warm and the teasing broke some of the tension. The five of them crowded around Grantaire’s desk, arranging chairs and divvying up the coffee. 

“So…” Vogel said after a couple of minutes. “Forget the NASA bullshit for now. Let’s go over what Mitch said. What do you think, Doctor?” His tone effectively cut through the emotion, instantly making them more alert. They all straightened in their chairs.

Beck let out a rush of air. “Okay, it’s Sol 114 and they said he’s alive and healthy…”

For several hours they analyzed every detail from the short update, going over every possibility and factor they could come up with. It was still painful, talking about him, but the five astronauts felt a little less empty than they had felt before.

 

* * *

 

**[VIDEO LOG ENTRY: SOL 124]**

          _Grantaire adjusts the camera, stepping aside to show the Hab’s main area, full of potato plants._

“I got around to reading the rest of the messages from the first data dump. The best one, besides the email from my friends, has got to be from my alma mater, the University of Paris-Saclay. They told me once you grow crops somewhere, you’ve officially colonized it. So… _technically_ … I colonized Mars.”

          _Taking a look around the room, he turns back to the camera with a self-satisfied grin._

“In your _face_ , Neil Armstrong.”

          _He radiates smugness._

“In other news, NASA requested that I pose for a picture on the next Pathfinder transmission. I’m debating between _Christ The Redeemer_ …”

_Extending both arms as far as he can, Grantaire adopts a solemn expression and bows his head._

“And the ever-classic _Leaning Tower Of Pisa_ pose…” 

          _Grantaire stretches one arm out awkwardly, leaning slightly and waving at the camera with a cheesy grin._

“But, you know, I’m not quite sure how that’ll look with my spacesuit on.”

…

Grantaire hesitated in front of Pathfinder. Every fiber of his being wanted to drop a sign that said _“Hi, Earth!”_ and run back into the Hab, but NASA was giving him grief about posing for a picture. He had no excuse, really, but what was he supposed to do? Stick his face directly in front of the camera and fake a smile? Cross his eyes, stick out his tongue? Grantaire had met Annie Montrose during his several years of training and he knew she would probably kill him if he did any of that…

Right then, though, imagining the look on Annie’s face made him smile- really, truly smile, and laughter bubbled up out of him. He knew _exactly_ how he was going to pose, and no one was there to stop him. 

When Pathfinder’s camera rotated to focus on him, Grantaire straightened his shoulders, curved an arm outward, and—

 

* * *

 

**[ March 20, 2036 ]**

“What the fuck is _this_?” Annie demanded incredulously, slamming the picture onto the conference room table. Mitch Henderson reached for the image and immediately started to guffaw. 

The image was blurry but unmistakable. Grantaire had posed with his arm around empty space, as if posing with an imaginary friend in mid-laughter. 

“Oh _my,”_ Venkat said, having trouble keeping a straight face as Mitch raised the picture to show him through the webcam. Given the situation, it was morbid to an endless degree. 

“I ask for a picture and I get a… I don’t even know what to call this!” Annie snapped. “I can’t use this, it’s _ridiculous.”_

“Have you _met_ Benjamin Grantaire?” Mitch chuckled. "I mean, what did you expect?"

Annie groaned in exasperation. “It’s not gonna work, I need something of his _face._ The media is hounding me for something inspiring.”

“I could tell him to take his helmet off, but then he’d, you know… die,” Venkat said. Annie rolled her eyes. 

Teddy Sanders wiped the slight smirk off his face and put his hands up for silence. “It’s something, Annie, just be grateful. Let’s release the photo when we detail the rescue operation. I want to announce we’re launching supplies to him next year.” He turned toward the second webcam. “Bruce, is your team at JPL still on schedule?”

“It’ll be tight but we’ll make it.”

“The supply probe travel time is about nine months and we calculate it'll get there on Sol 868,” Teddy said. “Did we get the botany team’s analysis?”

“They estimate that with the crops recently planted, everything will last him until Sol 912. They grudgingly admit Grantaire is doing good work,” Venkat said. 

“Grudgingly?” Mitch inquired. 

“Grantaire has a tendency to tell them to go fuck themselves whenever they question one of his decisions…” Venkat said with a resigned sigh. Both Mitch and Bruce suppressed grins and Annie looked downright murderous. 

“Get him in line, Kapoor,” Teddy said. “I _hate_ this margin. 912 sols’ worth of food and the probe gets there on Sol 868... And this is assuming nothing goes wrong.”

... 

**[ March 22, 2036 ]**

“Did you get Kapoor’s latest email?” Combeferre asked, sliding into the booth across from Enjolras with two mugs of coffee.

“Yeah, I did,” he said without looking up from his laptop. 

“I can’t wait until they release the picture,” Combeferre said lightly. “It’s such a Grantaire thing to do, right? To pose like they said he did, I mean.” Enjolras hummed in response and continued to type. 

Combeferre sipped his drink and waited for Enjolras to look up or say something. He knew it wasn’t a matter of being rude— they’d been friends for well over a decade and he knew how Enjolras dived into his work sometimes… But this was about Grantaire, so he thought Enjolras might look a little more interested. Or at least _pretend_ to, anyway. 

“So… Have you added anything to the next email they’ll send to R?” he asked. The blonde gave a little shrug, still not meeting his eyes. Combeferre frowned. Enjolras and Grantaire had stopped truly arguing years ago and genuinely became friends; given everything that was going on, he was taken aback at the noncommittal answer. _That’s our friend, damn it._

“Enjolras.” 

“Yeah?” Enjolras belatedly asked. 

Combeferre gave a long-suffering sigh and reached across the table, forcefully shutting the laptop. 

“Christ, what are you _doing_ , Ferre?” Enjolras demanded, looking up in annoyance. 

“What’s going on with you?” Combeferre asked calmly.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes trying to talk to you, and don’t you _think_ about interrupting me Enjolras, I swear…” Combeferre looked at him in a mixture of frustration and concern. “I know what you’re like when you’re busy and this isn’t it. I’m your best friend, just _talk_ to me.”

Enjolras stared at him for a bit before his shoulders slumped. “Sorry,” he mumbled. Combeferre pushed the second coffee toward him. 

“It’s okay. Now, what’s up?” 

“I’m just so frustrated with NASA. They barely tell us anything, they won’t even show us that picture they told us about.”

A ghost of a smile appeared across Combeferre’s face. “Yes, I believe I brought that up a few minutes ago.”

“Oops,” Enjolras said with a sheepish smile.

“So what _are_ you doing, anyway? Drafting a formal complaint?” 

If anything, Enjolras’s expression grew even guiltier at the question and he shifted in his seat.

“Enjolras…” Combeferre began slowly. 

“Okay, okay. Just… don’t say anything to anyone. Not yet.”

_Uh oh,_ he thought. “What’s going on?” 

Enjolras struggled with the words for a few moments, finally looking at him with a nervous expression. “You know uh… the time my parents almost kicked me out when we were sixteen?”

Combeferre remembered _vividly,_ of course, and immediately began massaging his temples. “Because you  _hacked_ the emails of a top representative and almost released controversial evidence involving several members of the American government? And then Interpol _and_ the CIA showed up at your house? Oh _yes_ , I most certainly remember that, you’re lucky you—"

“Right, okay,” Enjolras continued, ignoring the rising octaves in his best friend's voice. _“Despite_ the fact that I was in the right, since then I've approached social justice in a more, uh, _legal_ manner. However... I’m done with them not telling us everything. NASA, I mean. I'm done.” 

The two of them looked at each other for a minute before Combeferre let out a deep breath. “Please tell me why you’re bringing this up.”

“You’re probably not going to like this,” Enjolras muttered as he opened his laptop and turned it around. Combeferre’s eyes nearly popped out of his head and he choked on his coffee. 

It was code. Line upon line of bright green text blinking sharply against the black background. None of it made any sense to him but it _screamed_ trouble. 

_“Enjolras…”_ Combeferre groaned.

“Before you say anything," Enjolras said quickly, “Just know that-"

“Please don’t tell me you’re serious-"

“I’m doing it because they won't-"

“Whoever it is will _find out_ and-"

“-but I won’t get caught-"

“-this is the most ridicu-"

“It’s not a big de-"

“Not a big deal?”

“-look, it's fine-"

_“Not a big deal?_ Did you just say-"

“Just calm down.”

“Allah, give me strength-"

“Combeferre.”

“-give me patience-"

_“Combeferre.”_

They stared at each other for a little longer before Combeferre downed the rest of his coffee like a shot. _I'm too old for this,_ he thought. “Tell me what exactly you’re hacking and why.”

Enjolras fiddled with his watch and took a deep breath. “I’m attempting to hack into an email file to get the picture. Kapoor, Henderson, Sanders, I don’t know which one yet. But one of them has that picture of Grantaire and I want to see it, I… I _need_ to see him…” 

_He said I,_  Combeferre thought after a few seconds. _Not we._ His heart was pounding. “Enjolras?”

“I…” Enjolras was at a loss for words. Rare, for him to be so hell-bent on something but be at a total loss for an explanation. He could talk about a cause for thirty minutes straight if you let him, but now, he was silent. 

Combeferre stared at him, stunned. Enjolras would do _anything_ for their friends, he knew that of course, but... This was different. They all had been supporting each other, worrying together. They were a team and were desperate… but not moved to this level of desperation. While the rest of them weren’t exactly _content_ with waiting for the picture, Enjolras was literally hacking into _NASA_ to see it. 

_What is it about this? Would Enjolras act like this with any other friend? Would he be this distressed if it was anyone else?_ Pieces of the puzzle were slowly starting to fit together in Combeferre’s mind.

Suddenly he was hit with realization that no, Enjolras wouldn’t react like this if it was anyone else, though not for lack of caring. 

Combeferre came to this conclusion when he realized this is how he’d react if it was Courfeyrac. This is how Courf would react if it was Combeferre, too. This is what the desperation of love looked like. 

"You love him," Combeferre said at last. He didn’t even need to ask. 

Enjolras looked up at Combeferre in silence. Finally, he closed his eyes and gave a short nod. “Yes,” he whispered. 

_How could I have not seen this sooner?_ Combeferre thought, racking his brain for any sign. Maybe he couldn’t have known at all, maybe Enjolras’s grief was simply lost in the midst of everyone else’s. 

His heart twisted, imagining how helpless Enjolras felt, imagining if it was Courfeyrac so far away. He wouldn't be able to bear it. “Enjolras…” Combeferre said, his voice full of compassion. He reached across the table to take his hand. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It feels selfish. He’s not mine, it’s not like you and Courf,” Enjolras said quietly. "We all miss him."

“Did you ever say anything to him?”

“No. I almost did, one night. Right before he left. I couldn’t bear the idea of it, though… It wasn't my place to bring something like that up right before the greatest moment of his life. I thought we could…”

Combeferre nodded gently. “You thought he’d be back.” 

Enjolras's face twisted up as he tried not to cry. 

“I don’t know how this feels, I really don’t. But I know that Grantaire wouldn’t appreciate you getting arrested on his behalf,” he said with a knowing look. "At least not without him here to paint your mugshot on a canvas."

Enjolras smiled fondly. “No, I guess not.”

“Look… It’s only been a few days. We can afford to be a little patient. I’m guessing NASA has a reason for keeping the picture, after all.”

“It’s still bullshit, though,” Enjolras said under his breath.

“I didn't say they had a _good_ reason, but just be patient. For him, okay?” They looked at each other before Enjolras gave a slight nod of acquiescence. 

“And no more illegal activities for now.”

“For now?” Enjolras asked, raising an eyebrow.

Combeferre rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his smile. 

 

* * *

  

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 127]**

_Yesterday I noticed that something was up with the water reclaimer. Basically, it’s not processing as much as it should. It wouldn’t have been a huge issue if it was a small amount, but it’s gone down by almost half, and I’m pretty worried that’ll fuck up the crops._

_I told NASA about it last night and the meddling scientists are_ _freaking_ _out. I mean sure, the water reclaimer is critical to my survival and I’ll die if it malfunctions, blah blah blah. They’re out of their minds with worry, but this is a pretty normal day for me on Mars._

_Now instead of my daily work routine I have to go out to the Rover multiple times a day to answer each and every question they come up with. They’re having me triple-check every single square inch of the Hab and try different solutions they cook up in some conference room. And of course, nothing they’ve come up with has worked. I did rule out that it’s not an error in the basic Hab systems, but their constant worrying is making me worry. A_ _tiny_ _bit, though, that’s it. And I’m sure as hell not gonna tell them that._

_I bet it’s just some minor issue. All their fretting is probably going to end with them telling me to flip a switch or something._

_I mean I know it’s not that simple, but one can dream, right?_

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 128]**

_I think I’ve figured out what the problem is: since the water has soil in it from the crops, the water reclaimer has minerals in it, which probably caused a build up. It’s a basic plumbing issue and all I have to do is clean it out._

_I told NASA that I want to take apart the tubing because it’ll fix the issue, and after five hours of consulting each other they said "no," because they’re terrified I’ll fuck everything up._

_I’m doing it anyway._

 

**[VIDEO LOG ENTRY: SOL 128] (CONT’D)**

“Guess who successfully repaired the water reclaimer? This astronaut right here!”

          _Grantaire looks up from the ground, putting the last few pieces back together._

“You know, I get they’re trying to keep me alive. I really do. But I am so _sick_ of them telling me what to do every single goddamn minute. And sure, I might sound like a whiny twelve-year old right now. It’s not even like I’m flat out rejecting their advice… but I’ve kept myself alive for over one hundred sols. That’s got to count for something. I didn't go through all those years of training for nothing, after all.”

          _He wipes his hand over his forehead and rolls his eyes._

“And if Lewis was here, of _course_ I’d listen to her. Without a doubt. But a group of faceless bureaucrats on Earth telling me how to wipe my own ass? Nah.”

          _After a few moments he barks out a laugh and shakes his head._

“Oh no, I think I just sounded like Enjolras. God help us all.” 

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 128] (CONT’D)**

_I told NASA what I did and I think I moved up a couple spots on their shit list. Despite their worries, they can’t exactly deny that I fixed the problem, though. In fact, it took me less time to actually resolve the issue than it did for them to decide it was a bad idea in the first place._

_They’ve put together some of the best scientists in the world to work on this stuff, so I’d feel a little bad about calling them all a bunch of dumbasses. Just a bit..._

_Still, even with this setback I’ve achieved a lot. In the last thirty sols I’ve retrieved and repaired Pathfinder, talked to Earth (yay!), replanted my potatoes, fixed a plumbing problem, and listened to disco without wanting to scream too much. I’d say I’ve been pretty productive! It looks like things are finally starting to go my way. In fact, they’re going great! I might have a chance to live after all!_

…

Grantaire stepped into the airlock on the evening of Sol 130 and closed the door behind him, absentmindedly starting the depressurization process. _I think I’m gonna have half a ration for dinner,_ he thought, fiddling with the sleeve of his suit. _I need to remember to ask NASA if the rover—_

The sudden jolt of the airlock made him freeze, and he looked up in panic just as the airlock canvas tore.  

_“PRESSURE MALFUNCTION,”_ the automated voice rang out. In that moment, the Hab breached. 

In the span of less than a second, the force of the breach made the airlock launch into the air with a resounding _BOOM_. Grantaire hit the wall with a scream as it slammed into the ground. He was thrown around inside as it flipped and rolled away from the Hab with a deafening crash. 

As the airlock finally came to a stop, he gasped for breath, slowly rolling away from the wall. He couldn’t form any thoughts as pain exploded behind his eyes. His shoulder felt like it was on fire and he was vaguely aware of blood running down his face.

Disoriented, it took him a few seconds to notice the shrill beeping of his EVA suit and the quiet rush of air. He groggily opened his eyes and blinked a few times. _What the hell…_

As his vision focused, his blood ran cold when he noticed the cracks in his helmet. It was shattered. “Oh _fuck,_ oh no—" Grantaire whimpered, immediately scrambling to reach the gear that had landed around the airlock. The _hiss_ of the air escaping his suit seemed to grow louder and the pressure alarm became wild.

_“Suit breach detected. Oxygen level critical.”_

Grantaire let out a string of curses as he reached for his tape. For a split second he glanced at the monitor on his wrist, and the spiraling pressure levels made his heart skip a beat. He'd never felt fear like this.

He tore off a piece of the silver tape as fast as he could manage. It was a race against time, and he was losing. 

_“Oxygen level at ten percent.”_

He quickly pressed the tape against the middle crack in the glass. The noise of the escaping air only grew louder, more high-pitched as the glass continued to break right in front of his eyes. Grantaire fumbled with the second piece and it accidentally folded in his clumsy grasp. He screamed in frustration. 

_“Oxygen level at five percent.”_

Three more cracks. 

Two more.

He felt like he was drowning.  _One more, just one more come on—_

He let out a desperate cry and taped the last rapidly-expanding crack with numb fingers. The alarm dropped to a steady beep that echoed in his ears.  

_“Suit pressure stable.”_

He began gasping for air and frantically ran his hands over the tape to make sure it remained sealed.  _Oh god. Oh god oh g—_

Grantaire carefully tried to gain control of his breathing. He shut his eyes tightly and ignored the sharp pain in his head. _“Ah fuck,”_ he groaned, his voice cracking. “Oh god…”

After a few minutes he painfully got to his feet and looked between the pieces of tape on his helmet. The airlock looked like it had been through hell, and with a pang he remembered the Hab. _Oh no._

With a few very painful shoves he wrenched the door open and froze… The Hab was demolished. 

Somewhat aware of the faint ringing in his ears, he slowly made his way toward the mess. Grantaire stumbled through the gaping hole that the airlock left and took in the destruction around him. Nothing had been left undamaged— everything was either tipped over or broken, debris was everywhere, the familiar sounds of the Hab systems were silent… He had a sudden flashback to the chaos of the storm.

Grantaire shook himself awake and quickly went to retrieve an EVA suit from the shelf. He’d avoided looking into the main area but he finally gave in, and when he turned, his heart dropped.

The potato crops were _ruined_. The soil and destroyed plants all had a thin layer of frost over it, it reminded him of some movie or a painting but he couldn’t _concentrate,_ his mind was racing too fast for him to keep up. He knelt down and touched the nearest plant— the frozen leaves crumbled in his fingers. It was all gone. With a grimace, he gathered the suit and made his way to Rover 2.

As the rover (successfully) depressurized, the adrenaline started to wear off and pain began blossoming over every inch of his body. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, he wanted to punch something. Grantaire wanted everything at once, but all he had the energy to do was take off his helmet and stare into space.  

…

**[VIDEO LOG ENTRY: SOL 130]**

          _Grantaire looks up at the rover camera with a defeated expression. He finally lets out a huge breath, closing his eyes before the tears spill over._ _His voice is empty... and resolved._

“I am fucked. I’m gonna die.”

 

* * *

 

**[ March 25, 2036 ]**

_“The crops are dead. A complete loss of pressure boiled off most of the water,”_ Venkat said over the phone, _“And any bacteria that survived died in the sub-zero temperatures when exposed to the atmosphere.”_

“Did he lose everything?” Feuilly asked quietly, shutting his eyes for a brief moment.

_“Well, he can still eat the potatoes he already grew, he just can’t plant any more.”_

Feuilly, Joly, and Bahorel shared grave looks. “And how long will those last?”

Venkat waited a few moments before answering. _“We estimate they'll get him about 200 sols… We’re adjusting the supply launch plan. I’ll keep you updated.”_

“Thanks.” 

Bahorel let out a huge breath as Feuilly hung up the phone. “Well _shit.”_

“They said rations get him to what date?” Joly asked.

“Sol 409.”

“With the potatoes he can stretch it to Sol 609,” Feuilly said. 

“So by the time the supply probe gets there on Sol 868, he’ll be long dead…” Joly murmured. He looked up at Bahorel and Feuilly and sighed. “Fuck. How are we going to tell everyone else?”

 

* * *

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 134]**

_JPL is completing the supply booster sooner than planned to account for the... for what happened. Kapoor said they'll need to finish it in forty-seven days when it normally takes six months to construct. Obviously, everything's pretty much fucked._

_I don’t really know what to say or do. I don’t know._

…

**[08:34] HERMES:** _Dear Ben, NASA is letting us communicate with you now, and I drew the short straw._

_Sorry we left you on Mars, but we just don’t like you. Guess you found out the hard way, huh?_

_(It’s a lot roomier on the Hermes without you, anyway.)_

_We have to take turns doing your research tasks, but hey, it’s only botany. That’s not_ _real_ _science._

_How’s Mars? -Martinez_

 

**GRANTAIRE:** _Dear Martinez, Mars is fine._

_A few days ago I blew up the Hab by accident… but unfortunately, all of Commander Lewis’s disco music survived._

_How’s the Hermes? Claustrophobic and stuffy, I imagine._

_Every day I go outside and look at the vast horizons... just because I can._

_Tell everyone I said hi. And please don’t kill my plants._

 

**HERMES:** _Will do, buddy. Talk to you real soon._

…

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 149]**

_Now that potatoes are extinct on Mars, NASA is having me cut down my already-rationed food. I have to stretch my supply an extra two-hundred and fifty sols. Kapoor said they’d give me more details about the plan soon._

_I won’t tell them this, but I’m terrified. Not of rationing, not of being alone, but of the Hab itself._

_After the breach I had to repair where the airlock exploded, and the only thing I had to cover it was canvas material. I am now being kept alive by duct tape._

_I checked it, of course, before taking my helmet off. The pressure stabilized, the levels returned to normal, and nothing exploded… But it’s hard to function knowing it could breach at any point. All it would take is one tear or a little too much wind for everything to go wrong, and there’s_ _nothing_ _I could do to prevent it. I'd die almost instantly if the Hab was breached right now._

_I keep my EVA suit by my bed, even if it won't actually help. I look at the airlock every few seconds. I can’t really get to sleep anymore… And it’s only Sol 149._

…

**[11:49] JPL:** _This is Kapoor. Supply launch is scheduled for Sol 188._

_It’ll get to you before you starve, but it’ll be tight._

_Unfortunately we can’t send anything besides food and a radio._

 

**GRANTAIRE:** _No complaints up here!_

_I lost about 300 liters of water when the Hab breached but I still have 620._

_It’s not like I need it for crops anymore, so I should be good_

 

**JPL:** _Good. Keep us updated on any more issues._

_Also, the name of the probe we're sending is "Iris."_

 

**GRANTAIRE:** _Iris?_

 

**JPL:** _Named after the Greek goddess._ _I_ _ris traveled the heavens with the speed of wind._

_She’s also the goddess of rainbows._

 

**GRANTAIRE:** _Gay probe coming to save me— that’s awesome._

…

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 162]**

_There are a lot of things I miss about Earth. My bed, internet, and any food that isn’t potatoes, to name a few. But the thing I miss the most? Sound._

_That’s pretty vague, I know. Let me explain:_

_I miss the sound of my alarm blaring at me. The way the sounds of Parisian traffic reach my ears no matter how many pillows I bury my head under. The sounds of trees rustling, rain falling, thunder booming. I miss the chatter of my friends before meetings. I miss the sound of Eponine’s cat purring. The sound of the shower running. The sound of my ceiling fan as I go to sleep. I miss my music, I miss listening to Jehan reading me a poem. I miss the noise of the city. The way my steps sound on pavement. The buzz of restaurants, streets, stores. The sound of someone flipping through a newspaper. I miss the laughter of my friends._

_Here... I have the beeping of the Hab systems. I have the rustling of the airlock canvas threatening to rip. I have the noise of the keyboard as I type. I have the echo of my own voice._

_Mars is silent. I would give anything for some noise._

 

**[VIDEO LOG ENTRY: SOL 179]**

“I never really explained what cutting my rations meant. Let’s take this standard meal.”

          _Grantaire holds up a single food packet._

“Normally I’d eat three packs per day... NASA, however, told me to eat _one_ of these every three days.”

          _He cuts the food and sets two portions aside._

“This is my daily allotment, which I’ll supplement with potatoes, which I'm beginning to hate with a passion, by the way. Unfortunately the rationing doesn’t end there. Now, they tell me to do _this_ …”

          _He cuts the single portion into three parts, setting two of them with the other portions. One cube of food and half of a potato remain on his plate._

“…in order to not starve before the supply probe gets here.”

          _Grantaire sighs as he looks at the amount._

“My point is, stretching the rations an extra four days is a real dick-punch.”

_He reaches off-camera for a moment before taking a bottle and shaking two pills into his hand._

“I’m dipping this potato in crushed Vicodin and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop me.” 

 

* * *

 

**[ May 22, 2036 ]**

_“This is the Flight Director. Begin launch status check.”_

_“Roger that, Houston…”_

Enjolras looked away from the TV for a moment and glanced around the room. It had become a ritual, of sorts-- everyone camping out in the café every time something happened. He smiled softly at his friends, and turned back to the countdown.

_“This is Flight. We are go for launch on schedule.”_

Enjolras’s heart raced.

_“10…9…8…”_

Feuilly closed his eyes for a brief moment. Bahorel took a deep breath.

_“7…6…”_

Jehan took Eponine’s hand. Musichetta wrapped her arms around herself. Courfeyrac leaned closer into Combeferre’s embrace.

_“5…4…”_

Joly put a hand on Marius’s shoulder. 

_“3…2…”_

Bossuet tapped his foot nervously. Cosette wrung her hands.  

_“1…”_

They held their breath.

_“…and liftoff of the Iris Supply Probe!”_

Everyone in the café started to cheer as the probe launched into the sky. Enjolras exhaled in relief, turning to Bahorel with a wide smile. _Grantaire is getting food, it’s going to be okay._

They beamed as the newscasters cheered. 

They began to cheer as Iris shot upward. 

They all hesitated when it swayed slightly in the sky.

They watched in slow-motion as the probe exploded in midair. 

Everyone stared at the TV in mute horror, their smiles falling from their faces. No one said a single word. Enjolras closed his eyes in grief. 

 

* * *

 

**[09:12] GRANTAIRE:** _How’d the launch go?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -All credit for the science stuff and excerpts of dialogue goes to the author, Andy Weir, and the screenplay writer, Drew Goddard
> 
> -To me, a key difference between Grantaire and Mark Watney would be that R wouldn't emotionally recover as quickly... Like I feel he would be a bit more unresponsive and reclusive when shit happened, and he'd process things differently


	4. Chapter 4

**[ SOL 190 ]**

****_Martinez,_

_The psychs at NASA say I should write emails to each of you guys after what happened. I told them it was a stupid idea, but then they told me it was an order, so…_

_Hope this means they’re going to let us communicate more often. I guess they keep waiting for me to explode at you guys or something. It’s not going to happen, unless you count what I plan to say to Lewis about the disco._

_I don’t want to get too dramatic, but can I ask how everyone is doing? Out of everyone I could ask that question to, you’re the one who won’t gloss over anything. You wouldn't sugarcoat anything for my sake._

_I know you guys as well as I know myself, and I have a feeling Beck and Lewis, especially, still blame themselves. And I can tell them “don’t blame yourselves” a hundred times, but I don’t know that it would do anything, coming from me. You know... since I’m still here and all. I really hope you aren’t hurting too, but I know that even if you are, you’re still gonna take care of everyone else. That’s just who you are, and I trust you to do that. Make sure you all know it’s not anyone’s fault._

_And please don’t expect me to get all weepy and sentimental and say this is because you’re my best buddy or something. I mean you are, you’re pretty much the only person I let call me Ben, after all… but still. Just do that for me, please._

 

_Johanssen,_

_Every time I get on your computer I have to laugh a little. We’ve teased you about the computer nerd thing for a long time, but I guess I didn’t really see how far it went until now… I know for a fact you had the original Battlestar Galactica series on your data stick. At this point I’m really wishing you’d accidentally left it here; a person can only take so much disco and Happy Days._

_Oh yeah, you’d be really proud of the way I hacked the rover to talk to Earth. Sure, I may have had NASA talking me through every single step, but I managed not to fuck it up!_

_Remind me to give you a wedgie the next time I see you._

 

_Vogel,_

_I was going through everyone’s boxes of personal items again (sorry), and actually took a good look at the stuff on your computer. Maybe I just didn’t focus enough when I went through your shit the first time, but your book choices made me chuckle— you know, once I figured out what they were and everything. The Odyssey, really? You couldn’t have picked a more ironic book. I wish I knew German, though, because I would kill for some reading material. Your chemistry packets are so boring. _

_Which, speaking of, I’m still working on everyone’s research. I know I was trained to be your backup chemist and all but holy shit, I almost fell asleep trying to do your fieldwork, and this is coming from someone who is completely deprived of entertainment. I’d stick to my plants over test tubes and pH levels any Sol of the week. _

_I’m starting to suspect you’re a super villain, by the way. You’re a chemist with a German accent who had a base on the surface of Mars. Just saying, dude._

 

_Beck,_

_Please make sure Martinez doesn’t kill my plants... He probably thought I was kidding in that transmission. I’m keeping up with the rest of everyone’s boring work that I was abandoned with, so surely you guys can tend to a few plants. They’re like children, you see. I even named them. Ralph has the red label, Harold is in the silver tube, Thelma is in the glass box, and Sir Nigel has a sticker of a koala on the jar (don’t ask)._

_Take special care of Harold. It can be rather feisty._

_And since these messages are private and not displayed on every single news station (like my chats with JPL usually are), I’m gonna be blunt with you-- Tell Johanssen how you feel! If you don’t, you’ll regret it forever. As someone who is stuck indefinitely on a desolate planet, I wish I’d told someone how I felt. I even had years to do it and never said anything. I think about it a lot, and it sucks, okay? Trust me._

_Months ago you were worried about what she’d say. I don’t know what she thinks of you (or of anything, really) but just do it…_

_…not until the mission is over, though! Can you imagine the look on Lewis’s face if you two got up to something before the Hermes got back to Earth? Holy shit._

_Lewis,_

_I wish I could figure out how to engineer a phone or a webcam or something, because we need to have a lengthy talk about your music choices. Pretty sure everyone at JPL and NASA has heard my complaints by now. I just don’t get it, Commander. Now, I’m not saying I don’t have some of these songs on my iPod back home… But my library has a healthy mixture of genres. Yours is so disco-concentrated that sometimes I think it’s 1973. Seriously._

_If the Lord exists (and listens, after I chopped up Martinez’s cross), He must have gotten a few good laughs when you made that playlist, knowing it would be the only source of music I’d have._

_OR, maybe your obsession is all just a farce-- you made sure to pack the worst music in the history of humanity because it would make returning to the Hermes (after an entire month of listening to it on the surface) much better. I’m onto you, Lewis._

_Hey, Commander… I need you to do something._

_If I die, will you check on my friends in Paris? They’ll want to hear all about our time on Mars. Coming from you, I think they’d really appreciate that. I have no idea how they’re actually handling this. I really need you to do that, but not just for me. For them, too._

_I know it won’t be easy, talking to a group of people about their dead friend. It’s a lot to ask… which is why I’m asking you. I’m not giving up, I just need to plan for everything._

_Please tell them I love what I do, and that I’m really good at it. And that I’m dying for something big and beautiful, and greater than me._

 

* * *

 

**[ May 22, 2036 ]**

“—hang on, don’t finish the story until I take this call, I want to hear the rest of this,” Feuilly told Bossuet with a laugh as he glanced at his phone. _Unknown Number_. “Hello?” 

 _“Hi, hello. Feuilly?”_ The voice crackled. It was a terrible signal.

“Yes…?”

_“It’s Mitch.”_

“Mr. Henderson?” Feuilly asked, his brow wrinkling. Everyone instantly quieted down at the confusion in his voice and he put the call on speaker.

_“Yeah, but you can, uh… You can just call me Mitch on this call, no need for formalities.”_

They all gave Feuilly questioning looks but he just shrugged in response. “Is everything okay?”

_“I wanted to see if you could help me out. It’s about Grantaire, but he doesn’t know it...”_

Feuilly raised his eyebrows, straightening in his chair. “I’m here with the others, if that’s okay.”

_“Oh sure, yeah.”_

“What happened?” Joly asked.

Mitch let out a rush of air. _“It’s, uh… It’s a bit of a long story. I can’t say everything over this number, just so you know now.”_

“Are you… using a pay phone?”

_“We don’t really need to get into that, I’d rather you not be on the hook for me… Let me just start out by saying that what I’m about to tell you is not condoned by NASA, and you all can back out right now. Just tell me to hang up and I will.”_

They looked at each other, waiting for someone to say something, but none of them protested. “Go ahead,” Feuilly said warily.

_“Okay. I assume you’re aware of the next plan that was just announced?”_

“China letting us use their supply booster?”

 _“Exactly. CNSA came to the rescue with the Taiyang Shen idea, it was our only option. We’ve been going over the details of the plan as the launch gets closer, seeing as we don’t want another Iris malfunction. Anyway, one of the employees was checking the details and had an… epiphany, of sorts,”_ Mitch said before pausing for a moment. _“They came up with something that’s… well, I don’t even know how to describe it. It’s risky, it’s bold, but it could be a better plan than the one we have. It could save Grantaire sooner.”_

There was a collective pause.

“So what’s the issue?” Combeferre asked quietly.   

 _“The issue is that it scares the hell out of NASA. They're terrified of another PR problem, and this plan has been rejected because they’re a bunch of_ cowards _… More importantly, the plan involves the crew, and they’re unfortunately still in the dark.”_

Eponine frowned. “NASA won’t ask what they think?” 

_“NASA refuses to tell them it’s even a possibility. Even the personal messages from family members of the crew are being censored again. I mean, first they wouldn't even tell the crew he was alive, and now this…”_

“And you want the crew to know about the plan,” Bahorel guessed.

_“I do, one-hundred percent. I think the idea itself needs to be considered, but more importantly, the crew should make that decision for themselves. It’s absolutely not fair to them.”_

Enjolras nodded, his eyes alight. “They need to know.” The rest of them murmured in agreement. 

_“I’m quite glad you all agree, which is why I reached out to you.”_

“How would the crew be involved in the plan?” Feuilly asked.

 _“That’s the problem, I can’t really discuss the details over the phone…”_ Mitch said nervously.

Joly furrowed his brows in confusion. “Wait, if you can’t tell us, then what exactly do you need help with? I don’t understand.”  

Mitch waited several seconds before answering. _“I need to get the course proposal to the crew, but I can’t simply email it to the Hermes myself. It needs to get to them_ disguised _. My idea is to hide it in a personal message, which crew-mate Alex Vogel’s wife has already agreed to. Neither of us know how exactly to do it, that’s the problem. The information needs to be broken down, but I don’t know the first thing about code. I hate to get you all involved like this, but do you know anyone who’s good at… at hacking, really?”_

Most of them shook their heads, looking around at each other helplessly. “I don’t think so,” Feuilly said softly after a moment. His shoulders slumped in disappointment. "I'm sorry."

Combeferre, however, stared directly at Enjolras and slowly raised an eyebrow. “Actually, I think we do know someone.” Everyone else looked between them in bewilderment, waiting for an explanation. Combeferre grinned. “Now would be a great time to put your, uh… _skills_ to use.”

Enjolras stared back at him, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a determined smile. 

…

**[ May 24, 2036 ]**

“Have you figured out everything?” Courfeyrac stage whispered to Enjolras.

“Almost. I’m basically translating the final steps of course maneuver into an ASCII text file. It'll be disguised as a picture.”

"And what is the plan, exactly?"

"I don't really know," Enjolras said with a slight frown. "I don't know what a lot of these numbers and words mean, but since I'm not a pilot, I guess it's not supposed to make sense. The crew will know what it means, though."

“Still, this is so _thrilling,”_ Courf said excitedly. “Enjolras, you’re like the ultimate super-hacker warrior! You’re rebelling against _NASA_ and you—"

“Just announce it to the world, why don’t you?” Enjolras muttered under his breath. 

“—because I mean this is _huge,_ dude. This must be the coolest thing you've ever done. I need to ask you a question, though, before I forget...”

“Yes?” 

“Can I have your apartment when you go to prison?”

_“What?”_

“Well when they find out, I mean, which probably won’t be for a few days anyway. Oooh, can I have your spot during meetings, too? I’ll put on a blonde wig or something if it makes you feel better, I’ve done pretty good imitations of you, not _quite_ as good as Grantaire’s but I’m sure I can-" 

“Wait, Grantaire impersonated me? When?” Enjolras asked as his heart skipped a beat, immediately forgetting the earlier question.

“Oh look, Combeferre’s here!” Courfeyrac said innocently, pointing to the door. 

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Enjolras sighed.

Courfeyrac planted a kiss on his cheek and grinned. “Hey, it’s in my job description.”

Combeferre sat down across from them with a smirk. “Have I been replaced?”

“Not at all, dear. Just giving Enjolras a goodbye kiss before he goes to prison.”

“I am not. Going. To. Pri-"

“Quiet, Courf, let the man have a few moments of peace before he gets locked up,” Combeferre said, his mouth curving up into a smug smile. Courfeyrac hooted with laughter.

“I’m going to find new friends once I finish this,” Enjolras grumbled, looking back at his laptop.

“Okay _fine,_ we’re done teasing you for the day,” he chuckled. “How’s the work going?”

“You mean the work that is completely _legal?"_ Enjolras said, shooting Courfeyrac a pointed look. "It’s going well, I’m nearly finished. Going to send it to Mitch Henderson tonight.”

“Actually that’s why I came over. He called Feuilly again, I think through a burner phone or something... Anyway, Mitch said that before you send it to Helena Vogel, you need to get in touch with the guy who came up with the plan and double check the numbers. Mitch doesn’t doubt your skills, I’m sure, but he’s just worried.”

Enjolras nodded. “Understandable, it’s a lot of data. Who does he want us to talk to, then?”

“Someone named Rich Purnell, he works for NASA.”

Courfeyrac pulled out his phone. “I’ll look him up. What field?”

“If I remember correctly, he works in astrodynamics,” Combeferre said.

They all sat in silence while Enjolras continued typing and Combeferre sipped his coffee. Finally, Courfeyrac’s face lit up. “Okay, I think I found him. He’s definitely not a supervisor or anything, so he wasn’t on NASA’s website. The only thing I found was an article that his university featured him in several years ago.”

“And?”

Courfeyrac read for a few minutes. “Wow. Well he’s somewhat of a genius, and this is coming from MIT. They described him as “incredibly bright” and “promising” in the future of orbital mechanics. They even have a picture of him.” He handed the phone to Combeferre, who immediately smiled. 

“Oh, this guy is wearing a Bugs Bunny t-shirt! I _like_ him, Enjolras,” Combeferre gushed, looking up in excitement.

Courfeyrac huffed and pouted his lips. 

“Not as much as I like _you,_ of course,” Combeferre said with a soft smile, reaching over to take his hand.

“Oh no, _please_ don’t make me suffer like this again,” Enjolras groaned. “I can’t handle being trapped in this booth while-"

“Then get back to work before I start blowing kisses,” Combeferre deadpanned. He and Courfeyrac both snorted at the look of pure dread on Enjolras’s face.

…

**[ May 27, 2036 ]**

Everyone went silent as the phone began to ring in the middle of the meeting. Enjolras’s heart raced as Feuilly put the call on speaker.

 _“It’s done,”_ Mitch said triumphantly. _“A direct quote from the crew— Rich Purnell is a steely-eyed missile man.”_

_..._

“This morning, Annie will inform the press of NASA’s _decision_ to reroute the Hermes to Mars,” Teddy Sanders said coldly.

“Considering the circumstances that seems like the smart move,” Mitch replied under his breath, casually picking at his nails. 

Teddy glared at him. “You may have killed the whole crew. This could go wrong, and then it’s _six_ astronauts dead, not just one.”

He stared back at Teddy with a straight face. “What are you talking about?” Mitch asked innocently.

“Oh, don’t play games with me. We saw that Rich Purnell received two calls from an unidentified number in Paris. Are you really going to pretend you didn't have anything to do with that?”

“Look, _whoever_ gave them the maneuver only passed along information. The crew made the decision on their own,” Mitch said carefully as he sat up in his chair. “Although it would be interesting if you were admitting that there was something to be hidden in the _first_ place…”

“Bullshit,” Teddy snapped. “We’re fighting the same war. Every time something goes wrong, the world forgets why we fly. I’m trying to keep us airborne… This is bigger than one person.”

“No,” Mitch said in a deadly quiet voice. “It’s not.”

The two directors sat in tense silence for a few minutes before Teddy sighed. “I may not be able to catch whoever else was involved, but I'll expect your resignation once this is over."

Mitch stared back at him, almost wanting to protest that decision, but… all he could think of was Grantaire's relentlessness and the desperation of his friends. _It’s worth it,_ he thought. “Noted."

 

* * *

  

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 192]**

_They’re coming back for me. Holy shit._

 

**[VIDEO LOG ENTRY: SOL 192] (CONT’D)**

“I wanted to finish that log but I got so choked up I couldn’t type. I know I tease myself for getting emotional about everything, but I think I deserve a pass on this one. My crew is _actually_ coming back for me…”

      _Grantaire stops for a moment, letting the words sink in. He looks back up at the camera with tears in his eyes._

“See? Look at this. I’m a mess.”

          _He runs his hands through his hair and takes a deep breath before straightening his shoulders._

“Ah fuck. Okay, the fun part is about to start! I’ve got a shitload to do before the rescue. You want to know the plan, by the way? First of all, my crew-mates aren’t even landing. They’re flying the Hermes around Earth and resupplying with a Chinese booster, since Iris exploded. Then they’ll head back to Mars and… Hang on, let me just grab this.”

          _He reaches off-camera and holds up a map._

“That’s the Hab. Now, where I’m pointing to way over _here…_ That’s the Schiaparelli Crater. Remember that? It’s where I was planning to meet the Ares IV crew in about four years. NASA still wants me to get to the Crater, but not to meet up with them. The plan is to use the MAV to launch me into orbit _just_ as the Hermes is passing by.” 

          _Grantaire looks at the map for a moment before turning to the camera with an apprehensive look on his face._

“And then I guess they… catch me? In space.”

          _After a moment, he raises his eyebrows and exhales loudly._

“Right. Anyway, that’s not even my biggest problem right now. First I have to actually _get_ to the Crater, and it’s over three-thousand kilometers away. So I have 257 Sols to figure out how to bring everything here that’s keeping me alive with me, the most important of those devices being the atmospheric regulator, the oxygenator, and the water reclaimer.” 

          _He holds up his hand, pausing to yawn._

“I’ve got to figure out how to get everything to function properly during a much longer journey in the rover… It’s going to be a _lot_ of work. And luckily, I have the brainpower of Earth’s best scientists helping me with this endeavor! Want to know what they’ve come up with so far?” 

        _Grantaire stares at the camera for several seconds._

“They said, and I quote, ‘drill holes in the roof of your rover and then hit it with a rock.’”

          _He sighs._

“We’ll get there.”

…

 **[12:18] JPL:** _Grantaire? Are you receiving?_

 

 **GRANTAIRE:** _No, this is the alien_

_I come in peace_

 

 **JPL:** _Very funny._

_It’s Enjolras typing, everyone else says hi._

 

 **GRANTAIRE:** _No way!!! Are you serious?_

_What are you guys doing at JPL?_

 

 **JPL:** _We’re still in Paris, at ESA headquarters. They invited us here yesterday._

_They’re transmitting the messages through JPL’s computer in Pasadena._

 

 **GRANTAIRE:** _So you guys could have been messaging me like this all along?_

_Why did I waste my time sending long emails??_

_This is neat, it’s like texting everyone again_

_We should get a group chat going_

_An interplanetary group chat_

 

 **JPL:** _Joly would like me to tell you that he rolled his eyes so hard they’ve fallen out._

 

 **GRANTAIRE:** _Tell Joly that duct tape fixes everything, he should look into that_

_Haha, get it? Look?_

_So how did you end up typing, Apollo?_

 

 **JPL:** _I won “rock, paper, scissors.”_

_It seems to be the only way we solve things…_

_…except when Courf pulls illegal moves._

_He’s been hanging around Gavroche too much._

_We know you’re probably bored out of your mind;_

_Jehan says that they would type out the entirety of a book for you if NASA would let them._

 

 **GRANTAIRE:** _Tell them that would make my suffering far less agonizing_

_That was a joke, by the way_

 

 **JPL:** _I see that Mars hasn’t affected your sense of humor._

 

 **GRANTAIRE:** _Is that your way of telling me to lighten up?_

_Maybe I can try getting deserted on the Sun next_

_Would that suffice?_

 

 **JPL:** _Holy shit, we miss you._

_…_

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 193]**

_I’ve been thinking about my crew a lot lately. This plan means over five-hundred extra days to their mission, when they could have been home with their families that much sooner._

_I can’t even type that without tearing up. What did I do to deserve them?_

…

**[ May 29, 2036 ]**

_Dear Grantaire,_

_Some answers to the questions from your last email:_

_No, I will not tell the team of scientists to “go fuck themselves.” From what I hear, you’ve told them several times. I’m sure they get the point by now. You’ve been on your own for a while, we understand that. However, please keep in mind that your communication through real-time messaging is being documented, and most of it is usually broadcasted live by several news agencies._

_The score of the last Paris Saint-Germain match was 2-1 over Bayern Munich, and Paris will move on to the final against Juventus. Addressing the second part of that request: no, I will not “rub it in Vogel’s face.” The final is in five days and I will keep you updated, per your request._

_Unfortunately the data transfer rate isn’t strong enough to send music files, so your request for “anything, oh god, ANYTHING but disco” is denied. Your request for “books that aren’t in German” is denied, as well... Your request for us to construct a “transporter from Star Trek” is also denied, however, I’m genuinely regretful about this one. I’ll let you know if a miracle happens between now and our next transmission._

_Also, a heads up… NASA is putting together an investigative committee. They plan to analyze the mission and see if there were any avoidable mistakes that led to your situation. I just wanted you to be aware of what’s going on. We may have some more questions for you at some point._

_Sincerely, Venkat Kapoor_

 ...

_Kapoor,_

_Please inform the investigation committee they’ll have to go on their inquisition without me. If and when they blame Commander Lewis, be advised that I’ll publicly refute it. And if they decide to censor_ _my_ _communications on the matter, keep in mind I’ve got a group of friends that won’t hesitate to tear NASA down brick by brick if they need to._

_Cheers,_

_B. Grantaire_

_P.S., Miracles don't exist._

_..._

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 194]**

_I’m still working on the adjustments to the rovers. Remember how I had taken parts from Rover 1 a while back? It’s basically going to be a trailer that holds my life-sustaining equipment in it, leaving Rover 2 more open as I drive. I’m a genius._

_The reason NASA wants me to drill holes in the roof is because they’re trying to figure out a way to make sure the oxygenator works while it’s in such a small space. Sure, there’s way more science that goes into it, but who the fuck is ever gonna read these?_

_I’ll get to play with high-voltage power for the next few days. Can’t imagine anything going wrong with that!_

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 195]**

_Still drilling. It’s tedious as hell. It takes me about three minutes to drill each hole, and I’ve only got 137 holes completed. I estimate I have about_ _700_ _left. And I thought Vogel’s chemistry work was bad…_

_Not to mention, since I’m in my EVA suit I have to be careful about “wasting oxygen,” as NASA says, which means I have to go back to the Hab sooner than I'd like to each afternoon._

_I’ve been keeping JPL and NASA updated, but I still don’t think they’ve come to appreciate my humor._

_…_

**[11:56] GRANTAIRE:** _I drew out the shape using the measurements you sent._

_Next I positioned Rover 1 so Pathfinder’s camera could see it_

_Did you get the image?_

 

 **JPL:** _Affirmative. What we can see looks good._

_You’re cleared to start drilling._

 

 **GRANTAIRE:** _This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill._

 

 **JPL:** _Seriously, Grantaire?_

_…_

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 195] (CONT’D)**

_Well, I’ve watched every single episode of Happy Days that Lewis brought. I’ve played every level of Johanssen’s nerdy computer games. I’ve even tried to teach myself German by reading Vogel's copy of the Odyssey. Martinez didn’t bring anything (curse him) and all Beck has is_ _medical_ _journals. Gross._

_Let’s face it, Enjolras was right... I’m bored to tears._

_At least I have more drilling to look forward tomorrow. Wow._

_On a slightly more exciting note, I’m eating an_ _entire_ _ration tonight!!! I’m either getting rescued on Sol 549 or I’m going to die, which means I have thirty-five extra rations. I can indulge every now and then._

…

 **[17:01] GRANTAIRE:** _I have 357 holes total. About halfway done!_

 

 **JPL:** _We thought you would have more done by now._

 

 **GRANTAIRE:** _Dickheads_

…

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 196]**

_I fucked up. Holy shit I fucked everything up._

_I think this might actually kill me. I’m the biggest dumbass in the entire galaxy._

_Earlier I set the drill aside to cool while I took a lunch break, and since the temperature on Mars is freezing, it doesn’t take a lot of time. I came back outside not long after that and the drill didn’t start. Messaged JPL about the issue._

_No response._

_I waited several hours, rebooted everything, and finally figured out that Pathfinder isn’t connected to Rover 2 anymore. The connection died around the same time the drill died. That’s when I started checking around Pathfinder to see what was up. It had melted insulation…_

_Want to know what my stupidity caused??? I leaned the drill against the workbench. The drill’s cover was off so it could cool. The workbench is metal. It conducted power through the hull. Pathfinder is_ _supposed to operate on 50 milliamps... It got_ _9000_ _milliamps, which completely fried the electronics as the power surged through the hull._

_Pathfinder is dead. I just lost my ability to communicate with Earth._

_I’m completely on my own._

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 196] (CONT'D)**

_I think Mars has no shock value anymore, with how many times it’s tried to kill me. Okay, I admit this time it was my fault, but still. For once I wish things would go as planned._

_I spelled out a Morse code message with rocks so NASA doesn’t think I’m actually dead this time: “PTHFNDR DEAD. PLAN UNCHANGED. WILL GET TO MAV.”_

_At least this happened after we came up with a solid plan, right? Of course, this now means four very shitty truths:_

_1- I’ll have to complete the Rover modifications on my own_

_2- I won’t have any updates about the crew or how the second supply launch went_

_3- No more emails from my friends_

_4- I won’t get to hear if Paris won the final_

_This sucks._

 

* * *

  

**[ June 1, 2036 ]**

Enjolras slammed the apartment door shut behind him and threw his bag down. A little less than an hour before, NASA had called to let them know that they’d lost communication with the Rover, and Pathfinder had died. No more contact with Grantaire, then.

 _Damn it,_ he thought, angrily biting back tears. _Get it together._

He ran his fingers through his hair and tried to stay positive, but it was hard when Grantaire’s situation only seemed to get worse with each passing day. Just when they thought things were looking up, something happened eighty-million kilometers away, and they were beyond helpless,  _again_.

_How are we supposed to do anything, knowing he’s dying up there, all alone? There's not a thing we can do. God…_

As he headed back to his bedroom, the full force of the week’s events hit him— from a terrible day at work to very little sleep, and now the news about Grantaire… It all rushed at him like a tsunami, and he cracked. 

“FUCK!” Enjolras screamed, suddenly lashing out and punching the wall. _“Fuck…”_

He shut his eyes tightly and stood in the doorway, not moving. After several minutes he wiped the tears off his face and looked at his already-bruising hand. As he glanced up to see where his punch has landed, he froze.

He’d hit the spot on his wall where he'd taped up several photos of his friends, and his hand had landed only inches away from one of Grantaire. 

Enjolras remembered the moment the picture was taken, too, and couldn’t help but smile at the memory. It was from a vacation they’d all taken years ago. He didn't even remember much about the trip itself. What he could recall, though, were the tiny details that led to the snapshot that now hung on his wall…

 

_Enjolras hid his smile behind a book when Grantaire suddenly snatched Cosette’s disposable camera away and began taking pictures of the car’s interior._

_“Stop wasting film, R!” Cosette giggled, not even attempting to take the camera back. “We aren’t even at the beach yet!”_

_“Hey, it's a universal truth that candids are the best kind of pictures—"_

_Enjolras had unexpectedly seized the camera from Grantaire’s fingers, tossing aside his book._

_“Oho! The fearless leader has put down his university work at last!” Grantaire exclaimed, beaming from the seat in front of him. “Are you going to help me antagonize our dear Cosette?”_

_“No, I’m playing referee,” he laughed. “Smile, Granta-"_

_Whatever Musichetta had said right then from the driver’s seat made them all burst out into laughter, and Enjolras snapped the picture in the exact moment Grantaire had turned to look ahead, a laugh still on his face and a twinkle in his eyes._

 

Now as Enjolras wistfully stared at the photo, he forgot about the pain in his knuckles and relaxed. He didn’t cry, he didn’t run his fingers over the picture, and he didn’t punch anything else. Instead, he straightened his shoulders and turned to go get some ice for his hand. _Grantaire hasn’t given up,_ he thought, _and I won’t either._

 

* * *

  

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 199]**

_Every once in a while, I’m okay with not being able to talk to anyone._

_I know that’s selfish and pretty fucked up, but… sometimes I just can’t do it. Sometimes it takes all of my willpower to even get out of my bunk in the morning, and even then I don’t see the point._

_Maybe that’s the situation talking, or maybe it’s just me._

_So many times I’ve wanted to just stare at the wall and not move for days on end. But how could I, when I’ve got people to answer to? I couldn’t afford that luxury, not when I have Earth to check in with. It’s not fair to waste their time and effort. It’s not about my emotions, it’s about the work that needs to be done. I absolutely cannot afford to disconnect, even for a second._

_Now… I guess don’t have to make that choice anymore. My work remains, but I don’t have to put on my “happy face,” as Jehan would probably call it._

_The point is, I don’t have to fake anything anymore, since it’s just me. I’m still not giving up... but sometimes I’m kind of glad I don’t have to put on a brave face for humanity._

_I'm just so tired._

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 210]**

_I wonder if my voice sounds different._

_I thought about watching the first couple of video logs I recorded, since it's not like I can ask anyone their opinion, but something tells me that would only make this worse._

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 217]**

_I finished drilling the holes. And at my own pace, too. No pretentious scientists to criticize me now!_

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 221]**

_Well, I’ve come up with a basic itinerary: I need to have Rovers 1 and 2 ready to travel by Sol 449, which will then give me one-hundred Sols to get to the Crater. And I estimate the journey will take roughly fifty Sols, so once I get there I may end up having to live in the MAV for a while. That should be interesting. My crew should arrive on Sol 549, and if not... I’ll just die, and that'll be it._

_The Hermes resupply should happen any day now. I try not to think about it._

 

* * *

 

**[ July 6, 2036 ]**

Enjolras watched the news coverage from Beijing as Iris 2 launched from the Taiyang Shen booster. He’d declined the invitation to watch the launch at the Musain with everyone else, feigning a headache. Secretly, though, he wouldn’t have been able to keep it together if something happened to this probe.

It was the last, desperate attempt to save Grantaire, and the entire world knew it.

When the commentator announced it had successfully reached Earth’s orbit and was awaiting the Hermes, Enjolras muted the TV and walked over to the window to stare up at the night sky. 

_…_

As Beck completed the docking process, Martinez radioed back to Earth with a grin. “Successful resupply, Houston.” 

_“Copy that, Martinez. Hermes is cleared for launch.”_

Rick took one more long look at Earth before readjusting the ship’s course. He turned his head forward as the Hermes headed back into space. “We’re coming for you, buddy,” he said softly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Credit for science/dialogue goes to the author, Andy Weir, and to the screenplay writer, Drew Goddard.
> 
> -In my mind, Grantaire isn't even a hardcore PSG fan but he still keeps up just to be able to tease Vogel when the opportunity strikes lmao
> 
> -I had originally wrote Grantaire asking Martinez to talk to his friends (like Mark did in the book) but I went with the movie’s decision and changed it to Lewis. Partly because I really love the “please tell them I love what I do” line, but also because I just imagine Grantaire seeing similarities between Enjolras and Lewis, and choosing to ask that of her instead of Martinez. On that note, I think he’d also see similarities between Bahorel and Martinez, so it’s just a different dynamic.
> 
> -The entire “I’m dying for something big and beautiful” quote— It's very much Les Amis to me? Like at first the line itself didn’t necessarily seem like Grantaire, but then I compared it to “do you permit it” and it just... it just fits so well


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a reference of suicide in this chapter.

SEVEN MONTHS LATER… 

**[VIDEO LOG ENTRY: SOL 446]**

“You know, I’ve been thinking about laws on Mars…”

        _Grantaire sorts mission logs at the table and doesn’t look up for several seconds. His face is pale and gaunt— all sharp lines and angles where any softness used to be. The dark circles under his eyes are far worse than they were in his first video log._

“There’s an international treaty saying no country can lay claim to anything that’s not on Earth.”

        _His hair has grown long, nearly past his ears, and his beard is wild. Even with the beard Grantaire’s face looks more haggard than he knows, since he intentionally stopped looking at his reflection months ago._

“And by another treaty, if you’re not in any country’s territory, then maritime law applies. NASA owns the Hab, so when I'm inside it American law applies. When I step outside, Mars itself is considered international waters.”

        _When he reaches over the table to stack papers, the long shirt sleeves fall past his hands. He absentmindedly rolls them back up, as if he’s done it too many times to count. Even the too-big shirt can’t hide his thin frame._

“Now, here’s the cool part. In three Sols I leave for the Schiaparelli Crater, where I will commandeer the Ares IV lander. And since I accidentally killed Pathfinder, nobody _explicitly_ gave me permission to do this, and they can’t until I’m aboard the MAV. That means I’ll take over a craft in international waters without permission. Which, by definition… makes me a _pirate.”_

        _As he looks into the camera, his mouth twitches up into a satisfied smirk._

“Benjamin Grantaire, Space Pirate _._ Arrr, matey.”

        _He turns back to his work with a cackle._

“Get it? _Arrr?”_

 

**[VIDEO LOG ENTRY: SOL 446] (CONT'D)**

_Grantaire looks up at the camera from one of the tables_. _He holds up a mission log._

“If you remember, we had to scrub the mission six Sols in, which left twenty-five Sols' worth of research left. For _each_ of us. And as you know, I’ve been keeping up with my crew-mates’ tasks, but I thought I’d give a little update now that I'm finishing up everything.”

_He clears this throat._

“Commander Lewis, your geology fieldwork is in good hands. It was pretty straightforward. Beck, I’ve got to be honest with you, I don’t understand chemolithotrophic detection in the _slightest_ … In fact, I can barely even pronounce it, but I did my best. Johanssen, I know you don’t like it when I touch the Chem Cam, but guess what?”

_He reaches over and puts his hand on the edge of a camera, looking back with his eyebrows raised._

“…I’m touching the Chem Cam."

_He keeps his hand on the device for several long seconds, staring back into the webcam with a straight face._

"Vogel, I made up a new cataloguing system for your core samples, which I retitled ‘Das Core Samples.’ I'm catching on pretty well, right?”

_He gives the camera a quick grin._

“As for you, Martinez... I still _don’t_ know what it is that you do? I mean honestly, uh, I couldn't tell you. In fact, I have no idea why we brought you...”

_Grantaire suddenly doubles over coughing for several seconds. He strains to catch his breath as he sits up._

“Anyway, that's it. I tried to keep everything documented and organized. I know it’s not really my strong suit, but I wanted it all to make sense, in case... you know. Hey, maybe you can teach this stuff in class someday! _The Grantaire Syllabus.”_

_He barks out a laugh and shakes his head._

“The lessons will include How to Cook a Potato Forty-Thousand Different Ways... How to Blow Up the Hab... How to Make Water Out of Rocket Fuel... How to Effectively Cut Contact with Humanity...”

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 447]**

_Earlier I caught myself talking even though the log wasn’t recording. I do it all the time, I mean... I'm aware of that. I just wonder how many times I’ve done it._

_I wonder how many times I’ve made a pun and wished to no one in particular that Eponine could have heard it. How many times I’ve talked about how much I hate chemistry and waited for Vogel to reply with a smart-ass comment. How many times I've wished that Combeferre and Enjolras were here to roll their eyes at my sarcasm, or how I wish Bahorel were here to crack jokes. I wonder how many times I’ve wished aloud that Johanssen was here to help me with something nerdy, or how I wish that Beck and Joly could meet._

_How many times have I said something to one of my crew-mates or friends?_

_I know they’re not here, and I get that talking to them does nothing. I think it goes back to me missing the sounds of Earth. But now… how reliant on talking to their ghosts have I become?_

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 448]**

_I’ve done a lot of work over the last two-hundred and twenty Sols, and I think I’ve just about completed the life support modifications on the Rovers. I can’t believe it’s almost time to leave._

_For a while I didn’t even keep my progress up to date in the log, so let me fill you in._

_Rover 2 now has a big balloon in the top of it (so the oxygenator and atmospheric regulator can function properly). I put the RTG in a plastic bag and then in a container of water so the heat can escape through bubbles instead of overheating. It basically keeps the temperature regulated inside the small space._

_In my free time, I’ve been watching TV and planning for the trip. The worst part about taking the Rover out, like my Pathfinder trip, was actually being inside the entire time. Living in a cramped space that’s full of junk and reeks of body odor… Hang on, I’m having a flashback to university. Ha! _

_Honestly though, it sucked, and now I’m gonna have to do it for at least fifty Sols, if not more. Fuck._

_I have made a few adjustments to Rover 2 so I’m not trapped in such a small space… A pop-tent came to the rescue! It took a shit-ton of glue, but I think it’ll work. Now it’s constantly connected to the vehicle’s airlock for when I need it, and because it’s sealed, I don’t even have to put on my EVA suit. I just expanded my living space! It’s only 1.2 meters tall, but hey, I’m not complaining._

_What else is there? Oh yeah, a food update. Every morning I start my day with a potato and some coffee. Now, since I ran out of real coffee months ago (if you could even call it "real"), I invented and trademarked my own very special blend… Martian Coffee, which is essentially just hot water with a caffeine pill._

_I only have four caffeine pills left, by the way. It’s going to be a long journey. _

_After living here so long I don’t feel like I’m prepared to go, but I am. I’ve tested the Rovers by taking short drives and double-checked everything, so I’m pretty much done. Let’s go over my list:_

_Food - 1,692 potatoes and my vitamin pills. (The potatoes will be strapped to the Rover's exterior to keep from rotting.)_

_Water - 620 liters_

_Life Support - oxygenator and atmospheric regulator; emergency CO_ _2 _ _filters; two extra EVA suits_

_Power - Solar cells that will charge during the day; extra computer_

_Heat - RTG and backup electric heater_

_Storage - trailer (Rover 1)_

_Disco - a lifetime supply. My head already hurts._

_I feel like I'm forgetting something..._

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 448] (CONT’D)**

_Oh yeah, a plastic box for my toilet. Duh._

_I just have to make sure this one has a good lid…_

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 448] (CONT’D)**

_Forgot to mention that I tested out my makeshift bedroom/tent. The pressure remained stable and I didn’t die, and it's always a great day when I don't die!!!_

_The temperature, however, was a bit of a problem. Rover 2 and the trailer regulate their own temperatures, but the tent was really fucking cold, like the first time I took the Rover out. Things weren’t hot enough in the bedroom._

_Story of my life, no?_

_Anyway, I took apart the extra electric heater and wired the fan near the airlock. For once, science was on my side._

_...There’s not a purpose to these extra entries, really. I just can’t fall asleep. Every time I start to relax I freak out and have to double check something, and then I’m wide awake again._ _Even the usual torment of the airlock canvas threatening to rip isn’t on my mind as much. I guess I’m just a little anxious to leave the Hab… It’s definitely not home, but it’s stable. Sort of._

_Fuck, I think I’m getting sentimental. Time to get some sleep._

 

**[VIDEO LOG ENTRY: SOL 449]**

“Well… Today is the big day. The Sol? Today is the big… Sol? Ah, whatever.”

          _Grantaire glances around the room for a moment._

“As you can see, the Hab is a shell. I’ve stripped it down as much as I could. Really living up to my pirate status, I think.”

          _The main area is bare. The boxes of his crew-mates’ personal items are carefully lined up against the wall._

“I’m about to perform the final system shutdowns. It’s not technically necessary, but maybe it’s the sentimental part of me wanting to complete the mission like we would have done on Sol 31.”

          _He purses his lips for a moment before shaking his head in exasperation._

“A thirty-one Sol mission,  _my ass_.”

…

Grantaire ejected the flash drive and leaned over the desk before powering off the computer. He walked over to the wall where he’d tallied each day, marking the final Sol date. After hesitating a moment, he decided to scribble an “R” next to it, and looked it over with a ghost of a smile. 

After putting on his helmet, he shut down the systems for the final time. Looking into the darkness of the Hab, he was struck by the eerie silence. He’d spent over four-hundred Sols listening to the sounds of the systems running, or disco, or the sound of his own voice…

Now, it was _completely_ silent. There weren't even any unsettling sounds of the machinery to focus on. As the airlock depressurized, Grantaire thought about how creepy the lack of noise had been when he first got stranded— and it was nothing compared to this. 

He took a deep breath and stepped into the sunlight.

...

**[VIDEO LOG ENTRY: SOL 449] (CONT’D)**

          _Grantaire powers up the rover and glances up at the dashboard camera._

“Alright… Here we go.”

 

* * *

 

**[ February 2037 ]**

Enjolras was in the middle of a speech when his voice unexpectedly trailed off. Everyone looked up at him in question, but he was staring intently at the back wall. 

“Enjolras?” Marius asked quietly. He shot a curious look at the blank wall and then at Combeferre.

Combeferre stood up as though he were going to walk over to him, but thought better of it. “Is everything okay?”

“I, uh…” Enjolras’s eyebrows furrowed. His eyes darted to the tiny model of Mars from Gavroche’s science project they’d hung up so many months ago, and then back at the wall. He’d almost forgotten the project was there, until now. One second he was wondering which side of the planet Grantaire was on, and then his mind was suddenly  _racing._ “I have an idea,” he finally said, looking at them all with a grin. 

…

Two days later, they put up a map. Not just any map, however…

This map of Mars was even taller than Bahorel, and it took the majority of them to hang it. It nearly covered the café wall end to end. The most important part, though, was that the section of the planet they’d printed was _detailed_. Thanks to Feuilly and Cosette’s photography resources, the image had been printed in an almost satellite-level clear definition, and had a light grid layered over the surface. 

With the various coordinates that Kapoor sent, per their request, Combeferre carefully marked two locations with a pen. “Okay,” he said, “so that’s the Hab, and _this_ is where Grantaire's rover currently is.”

“And now we wait,” Enjolras said, looking over the map in approval. Suddenly it all seemed more real— the map may not have been life-sized, of course, but somehow it was easier to picture everything. It made it easier to picture Grantaire surviving on a planet eighty-million kilometers away. 

…

Day by day they tracked his progress, and when Kapoor sent an update, whoever was in the café made a new dot on the map. 

(As the bold line very slowly progressed closer to the location labeled “MAV,” their spirits started to lift.)

 

* * *

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 457]**

_Everywhere I go, I’m the first. It’s definitely a strange feeling. Step outside the rover? First guy to be there. Climb that hill? First guy to do that._

_Four and a half billion years without anyone here. And now... me._

_I’m the first person to be alone on an entire planet, and I guess it’s still sinking in._

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 460]**

_Something I don't think I wanted to admit for a long time..._

_Mars is beautiful._

_Every sunrise, every inch of the horizon, every valley. None of it is anything less than extraordinary. Maybe I thought accepting that would mean accepting my death, but now I realize it doesn’t change anything._

_Even if I die here, and there’s still a very good chance that I will, I’m still in awe every time I look around._

 

* * *

 

**[ March 2037 ]**

“How’s Grantaire doing today?” Venkat asked Mindy as he sat down at the computer station.

“So far, so good. He’s sticking to schedule. He drives for four hours before noon and then sets the solar panels. Then he waits thirteen hours while they recharge, sleeps somewhere in that time, and then he starts again.”

“I wish the connection still worked,” Venkat sighed, pulling out his phone. “I'd do anything to be able to get his status. Pull up his current coordinates, I’ll tell his friends there’s no major updates.”

Mindy nodded. “I estimated that he should arrive at the Ares IV site on Sol 506, by the way, and maybe a little earlier if he keeps this progress up."

“Oh great, I’ll let them know. Thanks.”

Mindy studied the satellite image for a while before sitting back in her chair. “Things have really changed since Sol 49, huh?”

“I was just thinking that,” Venkat said as he put down his phone. “I wonder how he’s _really_ doing.”

The two of them stared at the screen in silence. 

...

“Go for a run with me,” Grantaire said, rocking up and down on the balls of his feet. 

The rising sun made Enjolras squint up at him from the café booth, where he'd been for a minimum of ten hours. “The university-aged Grantaire would still be asleep, you know,” he grumbled sleepily.

“University Grantaire didn't have NASA analyzing his every fucking move,” Grantaire said with a smirk. “Come on, Apollo, it’ll be fun! I’ve got to get my training done for the day and you look like you need some fresh air, anyway. How long have you been here working on that report? Don’t make me tell Combeferre.” 

His teasing tone made Enjolras crack a grin. _“Fine,”_ he said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll go on your morning run with you.”

As he turned to gather his things, however, he froze. His laptop, his coat, his coffee… Everything was gone. He turned to look at Grantaire and let out an alarmed cry when the interior of the Musain vanished, leaving them standing in a bright red desert. 

He opened his mouth to ask Grantaire what had happened, but Grantaire was disappearing, too, he was falling apart right in front of him… Enjolras reached out to touch him, to try and stop him from disappearing— but then all of a sudden he was back in his bedroom in Paris, staring at the motions of his ceiling fan as his heart pounded in his chest painfully.

It was a dream, a memory, or both… and Grantaire was still on Mars. 

With a groan, Enjolras rolled over and looked at his phone. 6:02 in the morning and he was wide awake. _Shit,_ he thought. 

He sat up and rubbed his hands over his face, wincing at the irritation on his palms. With a jolt he realized that his fingernails had dug into his hands sometime in the night. He shook his head a few times, trying to rid himself of the nightmare, but all he could focus on was how terrified Grantaire had looked before fading away.  

Enjolras sighed and started to go through his emails, pausing when he saw a message from Venkat Kapoor. _A new set of coordinates._ After a few moments’ deliberation, he quickly got dressed and left for the café.

…

By the time he arrived at the Musain, Eponine was already there, balancing on a step stool as she marked the latest coordinates. Enjolras hesitated at the doorway and knocked gently. Even then, though, Eponine jumped and nearly toppled over. 

“Jesus, Enjolras. You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

“I think you just want a reason to punch me,” he said lightly.

Eponine grinned, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “No, not today.” She stepped down and began to fill in the next section of the slowly-growing line. “They say he’s making good progress,” she said quietly.

“Yeah, I saw the email a little bit ago. I had actually came to add it to the map… Looks like you had the same idea.” Enjolras paused and cocked his head. “Couldn’t sleep, either?”

“Not without trying, Apollo,” she sighed.

Enjolras’s mouth curved up into a grin. _“Apollo_ … Really?”

“Oh please, I know it doesn’t bug you half as much as you used to let on. Besides, someone has to keep the nickname up until Grantaire gets ba…” Eponine’s voice fell quiet and she looked abashed at what she had said. 

“Don’t worry, I say stuff like that, too.”

She shot him a grateful look before capping the marker. They both stood back and appraised the map for a few quiet minutes before Eponine spoke up. “So…”

Enjolras turned his head with a bemused expression. It was rare for the two of them to be alone together. 

“I _still_ can’t believe you have this super-secret hacker past and didn’t even _tell_ us.”

He grinned widely. “Yeah, well, I didn’t want to get anyone else dragged into it. I’m already in enough trouble with the government.”

“Which one?”  

“All of them,” Enjolras said slyly. She rolled her eyes and laughed.  

As the rising sun slowly filtered in through the window and hit the surface of the map, the reflections bathed the entire room in a reddish-gold glow. The vibrancy of the colors was somewhat surreal. After a few minutes, Eponine turned to him with a quizzical look. “You... had already decided to do the code for Mitch before Combeferre spoke up, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation.

“Why?” Eponine asked softly. She shook her head right away with a slight frown. “Not because it’s about saving Grantaire’s life, I get that. But you had already decided to go through with it before you knew what it meant, before you knew the risks. You had _no_ idea what the plan was, or that the Hermes crew would take on the risks that they did.”

“I knew there would be risks…”

“Not those, though.”

“No,” he agreed. “Not those.”

“Did it change anything, then? Knowing the plan could fail. Knowing the rest of the crew could die…”

He sat still for several moments and stared at the wall before sighing. “No, I guess it didn’t change anything. I agreed to do it because it was for Grantaire, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat, no matter what it called for.”

Eponine studied him for a long moment. “You have feelings for him, don’t you?” 

Enjolras didn’t even pause, as he did with Combeferre so many months ago. “Yeah, I do.” 

“I know,” Eponine said simply. She turned back to look at the map as Enjolras raised an eyebrow.

“How did you…?”

“You mean _how_ did I know? Well, I’m not oblivious, for one.”

Enjolras laughed at her matter-of-fact tone. “Combeferre figured it out, but I think he was still a little surprised.”

“Well he and Courfeyrac didn’t exactly  _hide_ their feelings, so…” 

“Ah yeah, that's true. They just clicked.” He glanced at her. “How _did_ you know, though?”

She gave him a bittersweet smile. “Because I saw the way you looked at him before he left, and I just knew.”

Enjolras turned his head away. 

“You don’t have to explain, Enjolras. I get it.”

His eyes wandered along the huge map, trying to envision Grantaire at the latest location. _I wonder what he’s doing at this exact moment. I wonder what he’s thinking._ “I wish I’d said something,” he murmured. “You know, before all of this.”

“I know,” Eponine said softly. She finally took a deep breath and went to gather her things. “Look, I’m not going to give you a hug and promise it’ll be okay. We aren’t the type to bullshit each other.”

Enjolras smiled a little and looked at his feet. “Yeah, you’re probably right…”

“Grantaire’s my best friend, and I’m here for you. I don’t know what else to say. This situation is…”

“Fucked up?” Enjolras supplied.

Eponine snorted and nodded her head. “Yep, that sums it up pretty well.” She paused. “I’ve got to go to work. Keep me updated if anything new comes in, okay?”

“I will, Eponine. Thanks.”

She grinned. “Bye, Apollo.”

As she left, Enjolras sat down at one of the tables and rested his chin on his hand, letting his gaze wander over the map as the sun filled the room with warmth.

 

* * *

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 478]**

_I still haven’t come up with my pirate name. I mean sure, the phrase “space pirate” has a nice ring to it. It’s simple, and it's not like anyone else can use it._

_I need an actual name, though. Blackbeard isn’t bad, but it’s a little cliché. Tried to think of something that encompasses my suffering but all I could come up with was “Captain Potato,” which sounds like some cartoon Gavroche would watch._

_Captain Potato? Potato-beard? Sea Potato? It definitely needs some work._

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 483]**

_I start my days with some nothin' tea. Nothin’ tea is easy to make: first, get some hot water. Then, add nothin’._

_It’s not_ _quite_ _as good as Martian Coffee, of course, but the caffeine pills have been gone for weeks. I experimented with some potato skin a while back, but I don't want to get into how disgusting that was..._

_As I was packing everything, I saved a few ration packs and labeled them. Hopefully by Sol 505, I’ll get to eat the meal labeled “arrival.”_

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 501]**

_Whoo! I’m almost at the entrance to the Schiaparelli Crater._

_That is, if nothing else goes wrong._ _Who am I kidding, though?_

_Anyway, this revelation has given me a newfound energy. Once I reach the entrance, I’ll drive the Rover into the basin of the Crater, and then head to the MAV._

_Tomorrow night, I’ll sink to an all-new low!_

_Wait, I should rephrase that…_

_Tomorrow night, I’ll be at rock bottom!_

_Nah, still doesn’t sound right…_

_Tomorrow night, I’ll be in Giovanni Schiaparelli’s favorite hole!_

_(Okay_ _fine_ _, I’m done)_

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 503]**

_I’m getting pretty impatient now, since I think I’m getting close to the landing site. Today I managed about 63 kilometers, and I think the MAV is about 150 kilometers away. I’m about to let the solar panels charge and catch some sleep._

_You know, I think I may actually make it there alive._

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 504]**

_Ahhhh!!!! This is awesome, holy shit!_

_I just got a signal from the MAV! It was only a blip, but I’ll make it to the location by tomorrow, and now I’m beyond excited._

_Combeferre always did say it’s the little things in life…_

_(I have no idea if he's ever said that, but I like to attribute all wise-sounding quotes to Combeferre. Like if I see some Socrates quote, I'll cross it out and write "Combeferre." Or if Enjolras reads some fancy quote during a meeting-- Combeferre said it, probably. Jehan writes out a famous verse? That's most likely Combeferre. You get it._

_I've done it so many times over the years that Gavroche probably thinks Combeferre is a sage. Although, that wouldn't be completely wrong. Ferre acts like it bugs him but he's not very good at hiding his smile.)_

_…_

Grantaire hastily attached his helmet to his EVA suit and stumbled out of Rover 2. He nearly tripped, but didn’t even notice as he hurried to the MAV that towered above him. He extended his arms outward, his mouth falling open in reverence. 

After several moments he beamed, and leapt into the air with a shout before running in circles around the framework. Finally, he collapsed into the dirt in giddy exhaustion, staring up at the MAV with an awestruck expression on his face. He let out a tiny laugh of disbelief as he gazed at the Ares logo printed at the bottom of the vehicle. 

…

**[VIDEO LOG ENTRY: SOL 505]**

“I made it! Holy shit!”

_Grantaire looks up at the camera, a wild expression on his face. His voice is hoarse with excitement._

“I’m pretty sure I’d be crying right now, but I ran around in circles and I’m now at that point of exhaustion where everything is _great._ Not that I have a lot of energy to go on these days, anyway, though."

_He glances out the window again and grins._

“Can you believe this? Nearly five-hundred Sols later… Here I am. Alive.”

_He sighs happily._

“I came back to Rover 2 so I wouldn’t accidentally pass out under the MAV and use up my oxygen, but I’m about to go back and power up the systems and everything. Then I can establish life support and camp out for the next forty-four Sols.”

_He rubs his hands together and laughs loudly._

_“God,_ this has to be a dream.”

…

 **[13:48] HOUSTON:** _Congratulations from Mission Control!_

_Well done, Grantaire! Status update?_

 

 **GRANTAIRE:** _Thank you VERY much_

_Rovers are functional but getting worn out_

_Oxygenator and regulator are both fine_

_Plenty of water, potatoes, and disco left_

_I think I’m good to last until Sol 549_

 

 **HOUSTON:** _Glad to hear it!_

_It's a relief to have contact again._

_Hermes is still on schedule._

_We have some adjustments you’ll need to start ASAP so the MAV can make the intercept._

_We’ll get you the procedure details within the next day._

 

 **GRANTAIRE:** _Copy that, Houston_

…

Grantaire read through the modification plans from the data dump. At first, he had been excited to go through the messages, since it was the first communication with Earth he’d had in so many months. As he went through each detail, however, his frown grew more pronounced. He finally stared at the computer in complete disbelief.

“You’ve got to be _shitting_ me.” 

…

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 506]**

_You want to know what NASA told me to do to the MAV? Get ready, folks, you’re in for a wild ride. Jesus._

_First of all, there was a problem in the intercept velocity calculations. Since the Hermes can’t enter orbit, the MAV needs to be going fast enough to escape Mars’ gravity completely. To fix that, the MAV needs to be lighter. Five-thousand kilograms lighter, that is! And you want to know how I do that? By stripping nearly everything from the ship._

_There are some factors that help that automatically, since there’s only one of me and not six astronauts total, for example. That includes suits and gear. Also, I’m not taking five-hundred kilograms of samples, so that can be crossed off._

_But now… They want me to remove all life support, because apparently I’ll be making the entire journey in my EVA suit._

_No big deal, I said, but how will I use the controls?_

_Guess what? I won’t._

_Martinez will pilot the MAV remotely when the Hermes gets close enough. Now, keep in mind that no manned ship has ever been controlled remotely, but that’s not even the scary part. This plan gets_ _worse_ _, if you can believe it._

 _Since it’ll be piloted remotely, they want me to remove all control panels and comm systems. (A remote-controlled ascent with_ _zero_ _backup comms… Awesome)_

 _Next, NASA wants me to remove the nose airlock, all windows,_ _and_ _Hull Panel 19._

_What’s Hull Panel 19, you ask? Oh, no big deal. Just the front of the ship._

_And get this… They want me to cover the gaping hole in Hab_ _canvas._ _Because apparently the atmosphere is so thin that by the time the ship is going fast enough for air resistance to matter, it’ll be high enough that there’s no air, blah blah blah._

_Did I say “what the fuck” yet? I think I might have, but I just said it again out loud to be sure._

_So, let’s recap! I am going to be launched into space under a_ _tarp._ _Nice._

_I love how NASA called this "some" adjustments. I am extremely bitter. My response to this plan, by the way, was “What the actual fuckl???”_

 

**[VIDEO LOG ENTRY: SOL 506]**

“I know what they’re doing, you know. I _see_ what they’re doing. Got their strategy all figured out…” 

_Grantaire’s eyes narrow dangerously as he stares at the MAV from the rover._

“They keep repeating the phrase ‘go faster than any person in the history of space travel’ like it’s a good thing, like it will distract me from how _insane_ this plan is.”

_His expression is a mixture of suspicion and dread._

“Oh _really?_ I get to be the fastest guy in the history of space travel? You’re launching me into space in a _convertible._ ”

_He sits completely still for a moment before going off on another tirade._

“Hang on, it’s _worse_ than a convertible, because I won’t have any fucking controls! You’re going to launch me into space in a tin _can.”_

_He takes a few very deep breaths through his nose and massages his temples._

“And, by the way, physicists don’t even use words like ‘fast’ when describing acceleration, trust me. They’re only doing it in hopes I won’t raise any objections to this… this _lunacy,_ because I like the way ‘fastest person in the history of space travel’ sounds. Well, you know what?”

_His frown slowly disappears, and finally he sighs._

“Damn it... I do like the way it sounds.”

_Grantaire looks back up resignedly._

“Alright, _fine._ Let’s do this.” 

...

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 512]**

_Okay, I admit that I’ve been having fun tearing the MAV to pieces._

_Actually, I’m probably having_ _way_ _more fun with this than I probably should be, but maybe it’s just all the tension and stress finally coming out._

_I know! I’ll start a therapy clinic. “MAV: Maul A Vehicle (For Stress Relief)”_

_Side note: I think I pulled something in my back when I was throwing the control panel from the top of the MAV. Maybe I should take it a little easier from now on…_

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 520]**

_Jesus, this is exhausting. I really wish Joly or Beck were here to check out my back, it’s killing me._

 

* * *

 

**[ May 8, 2037 ]**

“Everything is still on schedule, from what we can tell. Grantaire is continuing to work on the MAV and everything seems to be in order,” Mitch announced to them over the webcam. He let out a soft chuckle. “He also asked us to call him ‘Sea Potato’…”  

Enjolras’s mouth twitched up in a faint smirk after a few moments, processing the logic. “Well, Mars _would_ be governed by maritime law, so technically-"

“Oh yeah, he explained it to us. In detail.” Venkat said, shaking his head in amusement as they all laughed. 

“So what all does he have to do to the MAV?” Bahorel inquired. Mitch immediately let out a harsh chuckle while Venkat shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

“Well, there’s a lot of, uh… rearranging… he has to do,” Venkat said. 

“Sure, Kapoor, you could call it that,” Mitch muttered, rolling his eyes.  

It was clear the two directors weren’t going to let any details slip, and Bahorel raised an eyebrow. _“Okay_ then…”

“We’ll let you know what’s going on closer to the launch,” Venkat finally said.

“And when exactly is the Hermes scheduled to be back?” Eponine asked. 

“Mid to late December, according to our estimates.”

“When should we arrive at Johnson Space Center?” 

Venkat and Mitch shared a brief look. “We’ve been meaning to talk to you about that…”

Enjolras frowned. “About the landing?” 

“Yes… Sort of. You are all aware that there’s a lot of security involved in regular operations anyway, yes?”

They nodded.

“And with the added publicity for everything that’s happened, NASA is cracking down on official regulations…” Venkat let out a tiny sigh. “On that note I regret to inform you all, and I have been _instructed_ to tell you this, that anyone who isn’t immediate family will not have clearance to be at the landing site.”

Everyone looked at each other in heartbroken shock. They were devastated, and just as they began to explode in protest, Venkat continued. “However,” he said quickly, “as Grantaire’s _brother_ , Feuilly is allowed to be there.” He cleared his throat loudly and raised his eyebrows, giving them a very pointed look. 

They all looked to Feuilly, whose mouth fell open in confusion. Everyone turned back to the screen, utterly bewildered. 

“Oh, _give_ me the damn webcam,” Mitch said in exasperation. “What Kapoor is too _professional_ to say is that NASA will bypass personnel restrictions, for Grantaire. Since Feuilly is Grantaire’s emergency contact, and always has been, they’re turning a blind eye to the rest of the legalities. You’ll be his known as brother when it comes to the paperwork, really. We have to _act_ like we’re following the rules, of course, but everyone knows.” 

Everyone visibly relaxed and Feuilly let out a relieved laugh. “Wow, uh, okay. That’s great, then!”

Mitch shot a slight glare at Venkat. “Now, it’s mostly because NASA doesn’t want another scandal involving th—"

“Okay, _Mitch,_ that’s enough,” Venkat said through his teeth before sighing. “What he means to say is that in any other situation we would need to follow protocol, but we’d be heartless if no one was there to welcome Grantaire when he landed. I wish you _all_ could be present, everyone wishes that, but the medical team said no. I just need to make sure you all were clear on that.”

“Wait, why did they say no?” Combeferre asked with an indignant frown.

“They’re worried about him being overwhelmed,” Mitch said calmly. “Even I have to agree with that decision. If _all_ of you were there to greet Grantaire before the medical staff could inspect him, something could be overlooked. We have no idea how healthy he’ll be by the time they get back… I know you’re all desperate to see him, but please know this wasn’t without careful deliberation.”

Joly let out a sigh. “Yeah, that does makes sense… When _can_ we see him, though?”

Venkat flipped through his paperwork. “Well you’re all invited to be here in Houston, of course, just not at the landing site itself. And since the doctors need to see the entire crew shortly after landing, I would estimate you could see him… That night. Possibly the next morning, depending on his condition. It all depends, really, but we aren’t going to keep you from him any longer than we truly need to. But there’s a lot of other things to worry about between now and then, keep in mind that it'll be months before the Hermes even gets close to Earth…”

Enjolras could barely focus, after hearing that. It was all suddenly so _real._ Grantaire might really come back, and they were discussing his _homecoming_ and not his funeral service. He was flooded with a hundred memories. 

It had been two years since he’d sat with Grantaire, in this _very_ room, in ignorant bliss that everything would be okay. And after everything that had happened, it just might be…

Even the very real threats that remained couldn’t stop the rush of excitement he felt, and his heart was still fluttering in his chest by the time he tuned in to the discussion again.

“Did they really consider that, I wonder?” Cosette asked, her eyes widening in concern. “I mean, would NASA _really_ think about not letting anyone be there for him?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Jehan said quietly. “Not with everything else that’s happened.”

“I bet Mitch was going to go on a rant about their public image before Kapoor stopped him,” Bossuet murmured.

Enjolras balled his hands into fists. “I guarantee that they only agreed to let Feuilly go because they don’t want any more public criticism… All they’ve _ever_ thought about is a potential PR problem! Grantaire is more than a PR problem, damn it.” Everyone vehemently agreed.

“No wonder Mitch seems so fed up,” Courfeyrac said, shaking his head. “Can you _imagine_ working there?”

“This is ridiculous,” Musichetta sighed.

“This is politics,” Enjolras said with a bitter smile. She raised her glass to him in a mock toast, and it was so reminiscent of Grantaire that his heart skipped a beat.

 

* * *

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 537]**

_Oh no… I think I’m becoming_ _attached_ _to the disco._

_Help, it’s consuming me!_

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 539]**

_This place looks like a junkyard. I hope they don’t count this as littering._

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 542]**

_One week to go…_

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 545]**

_I wonder if I would have been able to successfully grow some grapes up here. Wine would have been a dear companion these long months._

_Potato, O potato… Wherefore art thou potato?_

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 547]**

_Hermes should be getting close enough for live transmissions soon._

_It will be my first live conversation with a real_ _person_ _in over five-hundred Sols…_

_And maybe one of my last._

 

* * *

 

“Okay, everyone. Let’s go over the plan again,” Lewis said to the crew as she sat down. “Martinez will be flying the MAV. Johanssen will sysop the ascent. Beck and Vogel, you’ll both be in Airlock 2 with the outer door open before the MAV even launches. And Beck, once we reach intercept, it’ll be your job to get Grantaire.” 

“He might be in bad shape,” Beck added quietly. “Now that the MAV is stripped down, it could get up to twelve g’s during the launch. He could be knocked unconscious, could have internal bleeding…”

Lewis frowned, but continued. “What’s the intercept plan?” 

“Vogel and I finished attaching the tethers into a long line. It’s 214 meters long. I’ll have the MMU, so moving around _should_ be easy.” 

“How fast a relative velocity can you handle?” Martinez asked.

“Once I get to him? Well, I can grab the MAV at five meters per second. Ten is like jumping onto a moving train… Any more than that and I could miss.” 

“We do have _some_ leeway,” Johanssen said as she glanced at the laptop. “The launch will be fifty-two minutes before the intercept and it takes twelve minutes. As soon as Grantaire’s engine shuts off, we’ll know our intercept point and velocity.” 

“Good,” Beck sighed. “214 meters isn’t a hard limit, per se.”

“Yes it is,” Lewis said bluntly. 

“Well, if I take off the tether, I could get out to the—"

“It’s not an option,” she said with a hard look. “Vogel, you’re Beck’s backup. If all goes well, you’ll pull them back aboard with the tether. If things go wrong, you’ll need to go out after them."

Vogel gave a short nod. “Got it.”

Lewis looked around at the crew with a determined smile. “Alright. Let’s go get our boy.” 

 

* * *

 

**[ SOL 548 ]**

_“Grantaire? You copy?”_

“Holy shit, yeah,” Grantaire said, his voice cracking in excitement. “Yeah I copy. They’re finally letting us talk?”

 _“Hey there,”_ Johanssen said warmly over the comm system. _“And yes, NASA gave us authorization for direct communication this morning. We’re only thirty light-seconds away.”_

He paused for a few moments. “What took them so long to give permission, then?”

 _“The psych team was pretty worried, I think,”_ she sighed.

“Why? It’s not like you abandoned me on a godforsaken planet with no hope for survival, or anything.”

 _“Ha ha,”_ Johanssen deadpanned. _“Don’t say stuff like that around Lewis, though.”_

“Okay fine,” Grantaire said. He cleared his throat. “Hey, uh… Thanks for coming back for me.” He blinked through the tears that threatened to spill over.

 _“Always,”_ she said serenely. _“Always, Grantaire. How are the MAV modifications going, by the way?”_

He let out a short, rough laugh. “Well, so far everything’s okay. I just finished removing Hull Panel 19 and the windows. Not easy work, that’s for sure.”

 _“Oh my god,”_ Johanssen said, shocked. _“Hull Panel 19? Geez, I guess I didn’t realize they wanted you to—"_

_“Hey, hey can I have this for like two seconds? Thanks, Beth. Heeey dude!”_

“Hi, Martinez,” Grantaire said with an ear-splitting grin. 

_“It’s so good to hear your voice. Oh, just so you know, for when you get back up here and all, that there’s been some room rearrangements around here and that—"_

_“Okay, okay, that’s enough,”_ Johanssen said quickly.

_“What, you don’t wanna tell Ben that you and the doct-"_

_“You’re done, Rick. Give me the comms.”_

_“Hey! I’m not finished talki-"_

_“Anyway, Grantaire,”_ Johanssen said as Martinez continued speaking in the background, _“just wanted to let you know we’re on schedule-"_

_“Love you, buddy!”_

_“-and that we’ll talk to you soon!”_

“Okay guys,” Grantaire laughed. Even after they had hung up, he sat in the MAV for several hours with a wide smile plastered on his face. 

 

* * *

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 548]**

_So I think… I might be done?_

_That’s definitely refreshing (and a little scary) to say. I’ve gone through all the procedures and double-checked everything. Honestly, this launch may not even work. I had to remove an engine, after all. I may have fucked up a lot but I won’t know until it's time. The MAV is as ready as it can be._

_I don’t know about me being ready, though…_

_Tomorrow I face the greatest chance of dying than I have the_ _entire_ _time I’ve been here. A million things could go wrong. If something happens with the MAV, I’ll just die. But if I miss the intercept, if I just continue on in the MAV… Well, I refuse to. Just like when I thought I would starve to death in the Hab, I prepared a lethal dose of morphine and put it aside. Now, I face the very real possibility that I’ll float into space forever._

_I won’t do it. I’ll adjust the oxygen settings if I need to._

_It’s now or never. Twenty-four hours from now I’ll be on the Hermes or dead._

 

* * *

 

On Earth, people gathered everywhere for the launch. 

In bars, in parks, in homes, in offices, in schools… They gathered.

In Berlin, they gathered. In New York, they gathered. In Mumbai, in Chicago, in Lagos, in Madrid, in Tokyo, in Cairo, they gathered. In France, they gathered, and waited in anxious terror for their countryman. People crowded together in front of their televisions, wringing their hands in nervous anticipation. 

A young astrodynamicist huddled in front of his computer with a hot cup of coffee. A flight director paced in front of the huge screen in Houston. A computer technician mused on a satellite image as she waited for the launch to commence.

In a café in Paris, a group of people waited. They held each other and did not move. Their hearts and minds were with their friend; he was a part of them. While the entire world waited to see what became of the man fifty-million miles away, they waited like their own lives were at stake.

It wasn’t an exaggeration, really. 

 

* * *

 

**[TEXT LOG ENTRY: SOL 549]**

_My last log entry on Mars. I would be lying if I said this wasn’t the most nervous I’ve ever been in my entire life._

_The original launch has nothing on this. Finding out I was alone on this planet has nothing on this. Not even the Hab explosion. No single event can come_ _close_ _to what I’m feeling right now…_

_Talk about saving the drama for the end, huh?_

_I’ve done all I need to do. I’m currently eating my last meal (a full, potato-free ration). I’ve backed up my log entries and research data. I gave the last of the potatoes a salute. I’m about to leave Rover 2 for the last time and go to the MAV to prepare for the launch._

_Five-hundred and forty-nine Sols later, I can’t believe this is it. I can’t believe everything that has led me to this point… I’m really leaving. My struggle to stay alive is a routine, embedded into my very being, and it's just supposed to end today._

_I have nothing else to repair. Nothing else to complete. It’s all over now, and my footprints will remain in the red sand. I’ve left my mark. Either way, I’m leaving Mars._

_Five-hundred and forty-nine Sols. About fucking time._

...

Grantaire caught a glimpse of his reflection in the MAV and did a double take. As he set his now-forgotten EVA suit to the side, he walked over to the reflective plate on the wall and stared at himself in near-shock. 

His eyes raked over his own face, and he didn't know whether he felt like crying or laughing. His hair was beyond wild, longer than he'd ever grown it on Earth. He'd been tying it back but hadn't looked at himself in hundreds of Sols... His beard was even worse, and somehow made his face look even more gaunt. There was no light, no spark in his eyes, and he found no part of his old self, unless you counted the frown. 

 _T_ _his can't be me,_  he thought in stunned horror. He raised his fingers for a moment and pulled back his trembling hand with a jolt, giving his reflection an accusing glare.  _Who am I?_

Shaking his head a few times, Grantaire immediately began to tear through the bag he'd packed from the Hab and successfully pulled out a pair of clippers.  _Thanks, Vogel._

Fifteen minutes later he stared back into the mirror, desperate to find a trace of himself. His hair was sheared short and scruffy, and his beard was less wild, although he frowned when he realized it only made him look more sick, more thin. A ghost of the bright face that had left for Mars so long ago. 

Somewhere in those few moments, though, the edges of his mouth curved into a faint pout, and he smiled when it reminded him of himself. "There you are," he murmured to his reflection. 

 

* * *

 

“Well, the media certainly loves a drama,” Venkat sighed as he glanced outside at the crowd of reporters. “It’ll be over soon, one way or another…”

“What can Mission Control do if something goes wrong with this?” Annie asked him in a soft voice.

“Nothing,” Venkat said quietly. “Not a damned thing.”

She looked back up at him in shock. “Seriously?”

“It’s all happening twelve light-minutes away. We can listen, but for us to send something and get a response… It just takes too long. They’re on their own.”

“So we’re completely helpless,” Annie said. “Again.”

Venkat didn’t respond as he stared at the surface image on the screen.

 

* * *

 

 _“About two minutes, Grantaire. How are you doing down there?”_ Lewis’s voice rang through the suit’s comm system.

“It’s good to hear you, Commander,” Grantaire said, trying _—_ and failing _—_ to keep his voice from breaking. “Eager to get up to you.”

_“Remember, you’ll be pulling some pretty heavy g’s, so it’s okay to pass out. You’re in Martinez’s hands.”_

“Hey, tell that asshole no barrel-rolls,” he said with a nervous laugh. 

 _"Copy that, MAV,”_ Lewis said. Somehow he knew she was smiling. _“Alright, guys. CAPCOM?”_

(It was time. Nothing prepared him for the way the adrenaline raced through him.)

 _“Go,”_ Johanssen said.

_“Remote Command?”_

(His heart was pounding in his chest.)

 _“Go,_ Martinez said.

_“Recovery?”_

_“Go,”_ Beck said.

(He felt his breath hitch in his throat.)

_“Secondary recovery?”_

_“Go,”_ Vogel said.

(Everything rushed toward him all at once.)

 _“Pilot?”_ Lewis said, waiting for Grantaire.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, and felt tears run freely down his face. “Go.”

_“Pilot, confirm.”_

_“Go,”_ he said forcefully, his throat thick. 

As Johanssen started the countdown, Grantaire finally gave himself up to all emotion, abandoning his fears for a solitary moment as he let the situation wash over him at last. He was sobbing now, not caring about anything else in the universe besides the way Johanssen’s voice echoed in his ears. 

The MAV began to shake, and he took another deep breath between his sobs. _Okay,_ he thought. _Okay, th—_

Whatever thought was racing through his mind was gone in less than a second as the force of an entire planet hit him in the chest. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Credit for science and dialogue goes to the author, Andy Weir, and to the screenplay writer, Drew Goddard. 
> 
> -The “Chem Cham” is a bonus scene from the movie and can be found [here](https://youtu.be/bTRy9etXnfs?list=PL11jnaw78nImntK66qqPfA386oSOIjYXS) :)
> 
> -I feel compelled to point out that the "tomorrow night, I’ll be..." lines from Sol 501 actually happened in the book-- hopefully by now you can see the similarities between Grantaire and Watney that made me want to start this fic
> 
> -That "Who Am I" reference was kind of an accident omg
> 
> -I was sort of imagining that he would look something like [this](https://i.ytimg.com/vi/JwzjfvQ3bvM/hqdefault.jpg) for the majority of the time (only more gaunt and thin) and then something like [this](http://66.media.tumblr.com/04988b5364b1972227e30e508442a992/tumblr_nqvnxnW9qG1s1wqago1_1280.jpg) right before the launch? 
> 
> -On that note, this is how I imagine him [before the mission](http://s.sidereel.com/cms/posts/246728/large/vikings-cast-wondercon-2013-15-550x366.jpg) (in flashbacks, especially)


	6. Chapter 6

**[ May 24, 2037 ]**

_“Secondary recovery?”_

_“Go.”_

_“Pilot?”_

_“Go.”_

_“Pilot, confirm.”_

_“Go…”_

Grantaire’s voice echoed from countless televisions all over the world, and rang especially loudly in a room in Paris. Everyone in the Musain wiped nervous tears away as they waited for the launch to commence.

Enjolras took a deep breath, trying to control his emotions as he thought about how vulnerable (and still somehow unafraid) Grantaire had sounded. How it felt to finally hear him.

He hung onto that single word and tried not to think about how it could very well be the last time they’d ever hear his voice. 

...

Grantaire had wanted to say _“see you in a few.”_ He had wanted to control the way his heart was hammering in his chest… But there was nothing he could do to prepare, because no one in the history of humanity could fathom anything like it. True to the estimates, the launch was _fast—_ faster than any manned ship in the history of space travel. The MAV raced toward space with a force no one could comprehend and he never imagined it would be like this. That it  _could_ feel like this.

It was like he was being torn from his core, like the weight of an entire galaxy was splitting him apart from the inside, like his soul had been ripped from his body a million times and left in the sand below him and—

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. In some deep corner of his mind he was aware of the pain in his chest, the way his body fought against the force and screamed back at him in complete agony. Grantaire turned his head to the side by a few degrees and through his blurry vision saw _space_ rushing past him at the speed of light, and suddenly he was hyperventilating but there wasn’t any air, _I can’t br—_

There was no way this was real. This had to be a dream, some sort of drug-induced hallucination. Grantaire was being blinded by the inferno coming through the gaping holes of the MAV, but he couldn’t shut his eyes whether he wanted to or not. He couldn’t move a single muscle, couldn’t form a coherent thought, and the shock of it all was turning into a fire that was consuming him from the inside. 

…

“Velocity is seven-hundred forty-one meters per second. Altitude thirteen-hundred and fifty meters,” Johanssen called out.

“That’s way too low,” Lewis murmured.

“I know, it’s fighting me!—" Martinez exclaimed, frowning in frustration as he fought with the controls. “Come on!”

“Velocity’s at eight-hundred and fifty, altitude eighteen-hundred and forty-three…” 

“Grantaire? Do you copy?”

…

Air didn’t exist. It felt like Grantaire had never taken a breath in his entire life, like he had never lived, like the fibers of his very existence were being torn apart at the seams as he raced toward the heavens…

He was only vaguely aware of anything around him. Somewhere a voice was calling out to him—Lewis?—but he couldn’t quite catch it, it was a million miles away and he didn’t even know if it was real. The fire that had spread through him started to fade, and was replaced by a comfortable numbness that should have scared him, but he was cracking, falling apart, fading into nothing—

In a daze, he slowly turned his head to watch the darkness of space appear in the windows. Just as he registered that the canvas was gone, he saw stars, so close he could almost reach out and _touch_ them and—  

Black spots appeared in his vision and sleep overtook him.

…

“Commander, he’s still well below the target altitude,” Johanssen said worriedly. 

“How far below?”

“Working on it now. Main shutdown in three… two… one… Shutdown.”

“Back to automatic guidance,” Martinez said. “Confirm shutdown.”

“Grantaire?” Lewis said clearly. _“Grantaire,_ do you read? Can you report?”

“He’s probably passed out…” Beck said over the radio. “He pulled 12 g’s on the ascent, give him a few minutes.”

“Copy.”

“I have interval pings,” Johanssen said. “Intercept velocity will be eleven meters per second, Beck.”

“I can make that work.”

“Distance at intercept will be…” Johanssen’s mouth fell open in astonishment. “Sixty-eight kilometers. Holy shit.”

Martinez’s eyebrows shot upward. _“What?”_  

“We’ll be sixty-eight kilometers apart…” 

In the airlock, Beck shot Vogel a look of disbelief. “Am I hearing things, or did she really say sixty-eight?” 

“Kilometers?” Vogel asked in horror. _“Seriously?”_

“Oh my god,” Johanssen said.

Lewis’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Keep it together, guys,” she said calmly. The comms were still being broadcast. “Let’s work the problem. Johanssen, time to intercept?”

“Thirty-nine minutes, twelve seconds.”

“Okay, let’s think… What if we point our altitude thrusters in the same direction?” Lewis asked.

“It depends on how much fuel we want to save for altitude adjustments on the trip home… I could get by with maybe twenty percent of what we have left,” Martinez said.

“Johanssen?”

“We could use seventy-five percent of the remaining altitude adjust fuel. It’ll bring the intercept range to zero.”

“Do it,” Lewis said without hesitation. 

Johanssen frowned in concern. “Wait, Commander… It gets the range to zero, but the intercept velocity will be forty-two meters per _second_.”

“Then we have thirty-nine minutes to figure out how to slow down. Martinez, burn the jets.”

…

Everyone in the Musain waited in anxious fear, not saying a single word as Commander Lewis’s voice reverberated across every news channel. Even the newscasters were speechless as the events played out twelve light-minutes away. 

Eponine’s eyes were shut. Jehan’s lips were moving in silent prayers. Feuilly could not even sit for fear, and watched the television with an intent expression on his face. Hands clasped together in worry and tears rolled down their faces as they all desperately waited for a sign that their friend was alive. 

They couldn't move. They could _barely_ breathe. For what felt like hours, the entire world started to shift in agitation and panic at the silence.

Over eighty-million kilometers away, Grantaire’s eyes blinked open. 

…

He didn’t realize the launch was over until he was staring at the surface of Mars from orbit. As his vision focused, he started to gasp for air, immediately wincing as the pain in his chest twisted like a knife. With a groan he glanced around the interior as pieces from the repairs floated around him, hitting the glass of his helmet in complete silence.

The vivid red soil winked up at him from below as the MAV spun in space, and it was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. It was the most remarkable moment of his life and as he stared at the planet, hundreds of memories of his survival came at him in a rush, and was almost too much to bear.

After a few moments his panicked gasps subsided and with a tiny shake of his head, he radioed in. “MAV to Hermes.”

_“Grantaire?”_

“Affirmative,” he groaned.

_“What’s your status?”_

“God, my chest hurts. I think I uh, broke a rib… Or several.” 

_“We’re working on getting you, just hang in there. There was a complication during launch.”_

Grantaire let out a chuckle, instantly regretting it as pain radiated through his chest. “Of _course_ there was… The canvas didn’t hold, I think it ripped almost immediately.” He paused for a moment. “How bad is it, Commander?”

_“We just corrected the intercept range, but we’ve still got a problem with the intercept velocity.”_

“How big of a problem?”

_“Forty-two meters per second…”_

He shut his eyes and took several deep breaths in a row. There was _no_ way they could make that, and he was unable to do anything about it, of course. It wasn't as if the Hermes could turn around when they'd speed past him... It had been all or nothing, and Grantaire's chance was now gone. His heart didn’t race, and he felt sick at the way he immediately accepted the news. No anger, no fear. 

It was all over, then. _I’m really going to die_.

 _“Grantaire, you copy?”_ Lewis said after almost a minute of silence.

“Yeah,” he said with a tiny crack in his voice. “Yeah, I copy…”

_“We’ll figure something out.”_

_I want to go home_ , he thought in anguish. _I have to see my friends again…_ As his gaze raked over the interior of the MAV, he suddenly felt desperation replace the apathy at his own death. Adrenaline pushed the stark, numb fear from his veins. 

“I have to,” he muttered aloud, suddenly emboldened. A spark ignited somewhere deep inside him, a kind of courage he didn’t know he had… He realized it wasn’t desperation he was feeling, but something much stronger, and far more unfamiliar to him—

Hope.

_“Grantaire?”_

_I am not going to die here,_ he thought resolutely.  _Not after everything._

His heart started to pound in his chest and he ignored the sickening ache from his ribs. “Wait… Okay, what if I could find something sharp and poke a hole in the glove of my suit? Then I could use the escaping air as a thruster and fly my way to you. I could direct it pretty easy.” 

 _“I can’t see you having any control whatsoever,”_ Lewis sighed. _“You would be eyeballing the intercept and using a thrust vector you absolutely cannot control._ ”

“Those are fine points, Commander, but consider _this…”_ Grantaire felt a grin appear on his face— something he thought might never happen again, given the circumstances. “I would get to fly around like Iron Man.” 

…

On the Hermes, Lewis rolled her eyes while Martinez and Johanssen burst into unexpected laughter. “How the hell does he come up with stuff like this?” Rick chortled.

“We should have left him on Mars."

 _“Fuck you, Beck,”_ Grantaire said. 

Lewis suddenly muted the radio broadcasts with a thoughtful expression. “Maybe… Maybe it’s not the worst idea.” 

Martinez raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Uh, actually it is. It is the worst idea _ever.”_

“Not what he said about using atmosphere as thrust…” Lewis turned to him, a bright look on her face. “Martinez, I need to know what happens if we blow the vehicular airlock.”

“Um… Commander?”

“It would give us a good kick,” Lewis said.

“It might blow the nose of the ship off, too. Just throwing that out there.” 

Johanssen looked up with a frown. “And all the air would leave. We need air, you know, to _not_ die…” 

“So we seal the bridge and reactor room,” Lewis said. “We let everywhere else go vacuum.” 

“But we would still have the same problem as Grantaire, we can’t direct the thrust…”

“We don’t have to, the VAL is in the nose,” she said earnestly. “We could just point the ship at the MAV.” 

Martinez glanced at the screen and quickly ran through the numbers. “Well, breaching the VAL _would_ slow down the Hermes by twenty-nine meters per second.” 

“Which gives us a relative velocity of thirteen meters per second,” Johanssen said, grinning excitedly.

“Hey, Vogel… I need you to come back in and make a bomb. ” Lewis said with a gleam in her eyes.

After a few moments Vogel radioed back in bewilderment. “Uh… Can you repeat that?”

“You’re our chemist. Could you make one with the supplies we have on board?”

“I mean, sure… But I do feel obliged to remind everyone that setting off an explosive device on a spacecraft is a terrible, _terrible_ idea.”

“Copy that. _Can_ you do it?”

Vogel smirked. “Of course I can.”

Lewis switched the comms back on with a genuine smile. “Houston, be advised… We are going to _deliberately_ breach the VAL to produce a reverse thrust.” With a _click_ she turned the connection off again, and immediately radioed the MAV. “Grantaire, we have a plan.”

 _“Whoo,”_ hedeadpanned. 

…

Bahorel was the first to say anything as they stared at the TV in utter shock. “Uh… I’m sorry, _what_ did she say?”

...

“Hang on a second,” Grantaire said, squirming in his seat as he started to unfasten the straps. “You guys can't make a bomb without me…”

_“Just hold tight, Grantaire.”_

“I can fly toward you, trust me, the-"

_“No way.”_

“But _Iron Man,_ Commander…”

_“Stay in your damn seat, that's an order.”_

_…_

_Millions of people sat in front of their televisions, unable to tear themselves away from the terrifying silence. In a crowded room in Houston, people wrung their hands, paced, stared at the monitors, all waiting to hear something. The families of the other astronauts, spread all over the globe, shut their eyes in fear, or prayed, or cried. A group of people in Paris huddled together, trying not to imagine the worst._

_In the vast expanse of space, fifty-million miles away from safety, the explosion was silent to all but five people. The force of it all knocked them back in their chairs and harnesses, and the rush of air escaping was almost deafening. Their determination and defiance, however, outweighed any other threat._

_A countless number of things could have gone wrong. Their testing of fate could have easily led to all six of their deaths._

_It worked, though. The airlocks came through and as various areas of the ship pressurized the Hermes began to slow down, fighting against the force it had maintained for so long. Against all odds, it worked._

_They gave each other fleeting looks of relief and kept going._

...

Enjolras put a hand over his mouth in total fear. He had never felt more helpless in his entire life… The adrenaline was like a wildfire, like electricity, and he wouldn’t even know anything until it was all over. _Grantaire could really die this time and we won’t... I won't—_

He felt Combeferre grip his hand, and he held on like it was a lifeline. Everyone settled in for what would be the longest half hour of their entire lives.

 _Oh god,_ Enjolras thought. _Oh god…_

…

“Commander,” Martinez said softly, “Are we not going to turn the comms back on?”

“The world doesn't need to listen in on this,” Lewis said without meeting his eyes. “Not now, not when a million things could still go wrong. I just…”

Martinez gave a short nod and felt his heart sink at the worry that remained in her voice. “Copy that. Six minutes.”

_…_

Vogel turned to Beck, his eyebrow raised slightly as they floated in the airlock. “You ready, Doc?”

Beck shot him a thin smile and looked back out into space. “Hell yeah,” he muttered, glancing up at the screen as he took a deep breath. 

 _“Fifteen seconds until the intercept window, Beck,”_ Johanssen's voice rang out.

“Copy that.”

He closed his eyes for several seconds, feeling Vogel give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. 

_“Ten seconds.”_

Beck took another huge breath and tried to steady his hands. 

_“Five seconds.”_

After the longest few moments of his life, Beck pulled himself back on the wall of the airlock and leapt out of the Hermes into space.

It was one thing to guide a supply booster into position, or even to climb along the hull of a billion-dollar ship that was about to explode. To throw yourself out of a speeding airlock while attached by glued tethers, however, was another ordeal entirely. Nearly every fiber of his being was screaming at him in panic to return to the ship, but his full attention was directed at the rapidly approaching MAV. In those seconds, nothing else mattered.

_“Twenty-four meters to target,” Johanssen said._

Beck felt his breathing start to even out as he ventured further into space. The crescendo of the mission was approaching, and rather than fearing it, he welcomed it. “I have visual on the MAV. Be ready, Grantaire.”

 _“Aren't I always?”_ Grantaire joked weakly. 

_“Sixteen meters to target."_

The MAV was getting closer with each second, and he could almost reach out to it. How many times had he dreamed about this moment? How many times had he wished for this opportunity? 

_“Nine meters to target.”_

Everything depended on this exact moment. A year and a half of agony... Somewhere in the back of his mind he thought about an entire planet desperate to hear what he would-

_“Three meters to target.”_

An infinite amount of factors had led Beck to this one moment in time, and he was _born_ for this, he was beyond ready... 

At last, he reached out and grasped the torn canvas, pulling himself to the top of the MAV. His eyes widened at the state of the ship, and could only imagine how unstable it really was. As Grantaire came into view, hovering near the lone seat, the culmination of 687 mission days full of worry and guilt started to fade from Beck’s mind. He grinned, despite himself.

He barely had time to focus on Grantaire as Vogel's urgent voice echoed over the comms. _“You've got eleven seconds before the tethers start to pull!”_

“We have to go right now!” Beck shouted to him, extending his arm. Grantaire's eyes widened and he nodded, pushing himself off the seat with his arms stretched out. His heart was positively  _racing_  as Grantaire floated toward him. 

In the single most surreal moment of his life, Beck’s hand met Grantaire's in midair and with a jolt, he pulled them both out of the MAV. Suddenly they were floating back to the Hermes and he gave a short gasp in elation and felt his heart skip a beat and _Grantaire’s really here, holy shit—_

_In that moment, the stars aligned._

“Beck to Hermes, contact confirmed!” Beck cried in an excited rush, glancing down at Grantaire as he maneuvered the MMU back to the ship. 

_The heavens sang._

Martinez's howl of joy could be heard in the background as Lewis radioed back. _“Both of you get to the airlock. Vogel, report.”_

_The universe was whole again._

_“No resistance on the tethers, Commander, I'm pulling them back now!”_

Beck felt himself relax and finally took a good look at Grantaire, who was staring up at him with an awestruck expression. He let out an exhilarated laugh. “Hey, dude!”

“Oh my god,” Grantaire croaked with an exhausted grin. _“Chris…”_

“Almost there, man.” Beck's smile was so big that his face started to hurt, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from Grantaire now that he was right there, _alive,_ wrapped around his torso after so long... He felt intense joy, the greatest relief of his life, pure elation...

And pain. _Worry_. He had become accustomed to the guilt after so long, but the sight of Grantaire's gaunt and hollow face in person broke Beck's heart. He shuddered to think about what the rest of his body was like. Nothing, not even NASA estimates, could have prepared him for how Grantaire really looked. 

He wondered if Grantaire could tell how tightly he was holding onto him, gripping his arms as if he'd never let go. Could he tell how desperate he was to make up for everything?

...

Even though his vision was still blurry, Grantaire could still make out the tears rolling down Beck's happy face, and he grinned so widely he felt like his jaw would fall off. After a few moments at looking up at him, a real person, he let out a shaky laugh. He wondered if Beck could feel how tightly he was holding onto him, using every bit of the strength his weak body had left. He wondered if Beck could feel the pure desperation through his suit, through their clothes, through space itself...

_Holy shit._

Beck's eyebrows knit together as he looked down at him with teary eyes. “You alright?” After a second he shook his head in slight embarrassment. “Stupid question, sorry.” 

 _The pain in his chest felt like it was splitting him apart._ “No, I'm okay,” Grantaire said with a slight chuckle, trying not to cry out in agony. “You're the first person I've seen in eighteen months, it's... I just…”

Beck's lower lip trembled as he bit back more tears. Martinez's voice cut through the heavy silence—

_“And you're the first dorky botanist he's seen in eighteen months, give him a minute to contain the secondhand embarrassment…”_

The echoing laughter of all of his crew-mates warmed Grantaire's heart more than he'd ever imagined, and if Martinez sounded choked up, no one said anything since they were all crying, anyway. He regretted laughing, though, as the stabbing pain in his ribs grew infinitely worse. The groan he was holding back finally escaped as the shock and adrenaline started to wear off.

Beck immediately frowned in concern. “Just hold on, we're almost there, man…”

(Grantaire managed to mute his microphone with trembling hands and let the screams pour out of his mouth. No one could hear him in space, after all.)

His cries had lessened by the time the Hermes grew closer, and his heart was racing beyond belief as he made out Vogel's smiling face waiting in the airlock. The chemist reached out for Grantaire, whose teeth were clenched together in an effort to control his reaction.

It suddenly hit him, right then, that he really had made it after all, and  _my heart is gonna fall out of my chest-_

Vogel placed his hands on either side of his helmet and leaned in close, putting his forehead right on the glass as he looked at Grantaire with tears in his eyes. “Welcome back,” he said, beaming.

Grantaire felt lucky the microphone was still muted as he fell into Vogel and Beck's embraces with a sob. 

...

Enjolras remembered watching the various mission events live, thinking about how scared he'd felt. From the (now unnecessary) memorial service, to the supply booster failure, to the loss of Pathfinder... Back then, he couldn’t imagine that it could be worse.

He had never felt horror like this, though. Waiting to hear Grantaire's voice again was the most anxious he'd ever felt in his entire life, even beyond what he could imagine in his worst nightmare. Enjolras was barely aware of anyone else in the room as he clenched his eyes shut and felt his heart beat so fast he thought it would fly out of his chest.

The silence made the entire situation far worse. Not one person, not even a single newscaster, said anything... The absence of voices, even _worried_ ones, only made it easier for the anxiety to crawl up his chest and threaten to choke him. Each heartbeat sent another pang of fear throughout his body and the pure, unadulterated panic he felt was the only thing stopping him from losing it.

Enjolras tried to concentrate on the way Combeferre's shoulder pressed against him instead of the way his body felt like it was about to shatter into a million pieces.

Each second felt like a lifetime. Every minute that passed without a word was an eternity. A stream of incoherent chatter ran through his mind like a newsreel.  _Please please oh god what's happening why can't they say something what's going on Grantaire please please fuck why did you go stay here please why was it you please oh no fuck..._

After twenty-three minutes of absolute silence, the crack of the radio over the speaker felt like a bolt of lightning straight through his chest. His eyes flew open and his heart stopped—

_“Houston, this is Hermes... We got him.”_

The world exploded in celebration.

A sob of joy escaped Enjolras's mouth and he buried his face in his hands as the weight of the world slipped from his shoulders. The words were like a balm that extinguished every flame of worry in his chest, he felt all of the tension leave his body, the ringing in his ears disappeared... He almost missed the way Johanssen said _“six crew safely aboard”_ because of the sheer volume of their voices.

Suddenly Combeferre's arms were around him. Enjolras felt tears run down his face and into Ferre's shirt, and he glanced over his friend's shoulder at the TV, which broadcasted live coverage of Mission Control. Everyone's arms were around each other there, too, and they looked and sounded exactly like he felt, like he could fall apart from pure happiness.

He was about to collapse, but not from grief... No, the grief was gone. _Finally,_ it was almost over.

Enjolras tore his eyes away from the coverage and sobbed even harder when he saw his friends, incoherent with joy, shouting at each other in wild exhilaration, euphoric beyond measure from the greatest moment they'd ever witnessed. He felt Courfeyrac's arms wrap around them, and then Feuilly, and Bossuet, and Eponine, and Jehan, and Bahorel, and Cosette...

Everyone in the café wrapped around each other and sank to the floor in a tangle of limbs, unintelligible through their sobs and their laughter and their joy... and _finally,_ everything felt okay again. 

...

Grantaire fell in and out of consciousness, registering the events around him like they were flashes of lightning. He was aware of Vogel and Beck grasping his arms in the airlock… The sound of his own feeble voice echoing in his helmet… Johanssen’s beaming face appearing in the airlock window… His crew-mates floating him down the hall… And then, more darkness.

When he awoke in the medical bay he let out a quiet groan, immediately struggling to get his suit off. The pain radiating from his chest was white-hot. 

“Easy there, cowboy.”

He cracked an eye open. _“Beck.”_

“I’m right here,” Beck said, putting a hand on his shoulder. He tried not to grin at Grantaire’s comically pitiful pout. “I’ll get the suit off as soon as the ship is pressurized, don’t worry.”

Grantaire gave the tiniest of nods and glanced around the room, taking it all in. The bright lights sent waves of pain through his skull but he couldn’t stop looking. _Holy shit… Is this real?_

“Yeah,” Beck said gently. 

With a start, Grantaire realized he’d said it aloud. “Sorry,” he muttered. His voice was beyond raw. “Not used to an audience.”

Beck’s smile disappeared and he turned away so Grantaire couldn’t see the expression on his face. 

_…_

_“How is he?”_

“I don’t know just yet, the next update hasn’t-"

_“But he’s okay, right?”_

“From what I can gather, yes, Commander Le-"

_“When can someone talk to him?”_

“I’m sure Doctor Beck is examining him right now, so hopefully we’ll know soon.“

_“You’ll keep us updated, right?”_

“Yes, I will update you…” Venkat hung up the phone with an exhausted sigh, grinning at Mitch. “His friends are absolutely relentless, you know.”

“Oh I know, trust me,” Mitch said brightly, raising his glass in another toast.

…

Johanssen, Vogel, Martinez, and Lewis stood in the doorway as Beck examined Grantaire, all somewhere between crying and smiling as they avoided the stench. 

“Good _god,_ man,” Martinez said, holding a hand over his nose. “You smell like a sewer.”

“A _Parisian_ sewer,” Grantaire corrected with a drunken grin. “The best of the best, I hope.”

“Well if that’s what you’re going for, you certainly got first place,” Vogel said, his voice muffled under his sweatshirt. The edges of his eyes were crinkled in endearment.

"We may have to put him back, Commander," Johanssen giggled.

“Sorry, guys. I haven’t washed anything in about a year and a half…” Grantaire suddenly hissed in pain as Beck lightly ran a hand over his ribs. _“Christ.”_

“Sorry,” Beck muttered, preoccupied with the damage to his body. “I can’t tell how bad this is right now. Hey, everyone please get out, you’re making him laugh.”

“They’re fine,” Grantaire pleaded. “Don’t make them leave yet.”

“Nope.”

“But _mom,”_ Martinez whined, immediately making Grantaire’s chest rise and fall in silent laughter. “Shit, Beck’s right. We’ll be back, buddy!”

"Bye, Grantaire!" Johanssen called. "Looking forward to that group hug!"

Lewis took a deep breath through her mouth and walked over to squeeze his hand. "It's good to see you, Grantaire."

"Missed you too, Commander," he said softly as his crew-mates left. “And hey, bring me some food or something when you guys—" His face contorted in pain just as Johanssen shut the door behind them. “Ah _fuck.”_

“You were right earlier," Beck said quietly. “You’ve broken at least three ribs, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s more.”

Grantaire didn’t answer. His breathing grew shallow as the new round of adrenaline wore off, leaving the full extent of his injures to hit him all over again. He clenched his eyes shut, silently willing himself to pass out again, willing himself to think of anything, _anything_ else…

Beck snipped Grantaire’s shirt away, his eyes widening at the array of bruises on his emaciated body. His blood ran cold as he took in the full picture. It was just as bad—maybe even worse—than he’d imagined as they floated back to the Hermes. It took his breath away, and he struggled to maintain his composure. Once he managed to tear his eyes away from the vibrant bruises on his chest, Beck assessed the full damage as Grantaire struggled to stay awake. 

“Well, Doc?” Grantaire rasped sometime later. “What’s the verdict?”

“First things first, you need a shower, dude. My god.”

Grantaire bared his teeth in a faint grin. “No, really…”

“Are you sure you want to hear this?” Beck asked quietly.

“Go for it.”

He let out an enormous sigh. “You have four broken ribs. You’re beyond malnourished, and I have no idea how bad it is yet. You have countless lesions and sores that are infected. Your teeth show significant damage. You have a concussion from the launch and some sort of back injury that hasn’t healed, judging by the way you're moving. On top of all that, I’m positive that your internal organs and cell counts are fucked.” Beck paused. “And of course, I have no idea how you’ve been affected by the radiation…”

They were silent for several minutes. “Well…” Grantaire finally drawled. “You’re certainly getting your money’s worth, then.”

Beck let out a quiet, slightly reluctant chuckle. “Shut up…”

“I’m serious, I bet you’ve been bored to death. Bet you were begging everyone for a _real_ injury—”

“Shut _up,”_ Beck laughed, a bit more at ease than he'd been for the last hour. “God.”

“Tell me, how professional were you when Martinez got a paper cut? Were you counting down the days until I got back so you could poke and prod at me?”

The rest of the crew suppressed their own giggles as they heard Beck’s howling laughter echo down the hall. 

Six crew… safely aboard.

... 

Several hours later, after a shower and the best glass of apple juice he’d ever had, Grantaire woke to the pleasant sensation of _really_ good pain medication and the sound of someone else's breathing. It was the longest few hours of sleep he'd gotten in over a year. He glanced up at Lewis, who sat next to his bed, idly flipping through a mission log.

"Commander," Grantaire whispered, his voice heavy with drowsiness. He could already feeling himself falling asleep again. 

"Yeah?"

"You have terrible taste in music."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Credit for science and dialogue goes to the author, Andy Weir, and to the screenplay writer, Drew Goddard.
> 
> -The rescue scene brings me to tears every time I mean honestly
> 
> -I do adore the movie version of the rescue, with Lewis and the “Iron Man” part, but felt like the book scene with Beck was better for references later on
> 
> -Shoutout to my main man Victor Hugo. Sorry I didn’t talk about Parisian sewers more 
> 
> -Finally reached post-canon! Last chapter is going to be the journey home and the second part of the series is going to be his return to Earth and actual Enjolras/Grantaire


	7. Chapter 7

_“Suit breach detected. Oxygen level critical.”_

Grantaire struggled to tear the tape, but his clumsy fingers shredded it into pieces too tiny to cover the fractures in the glass of his helmet. His hands were moving slow, far too slow to combat the escaping air-

_“Oxygen level at five percent.”_

No, wasn’t it just at fifteen? Why couldn’t he _move?_  

_“Oxygen level at two percent.”_

He had no idea what had happened. Shouldn’t he feel the effects? Shouldn’t he feel like he was losing oxygen? If anything his heartbeat was speeding up, not slowing down, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the giant hole in his helmet. The tension in his chest was growing from a slight twinge to the sensation of complete torture in the span of a few seconds. If this was his end, it was in more detail than he’d expected it to be, _let it end for God’s sake._

_“Oxygen level depleted.”_

Suddenly his EVA suit was constricting his body into nothing: he was in a vacuum, void of every breath he’d ever taken, and then the suit was disappearing and he was floating, watching the surface of Mars from the abyss of space while he felt a hundred stabs of pain in his chest and oh, _oh—_

“Ben, stop moving!” 

“Make sure he doesn’t twist too much, his ribs are still in bad shape…”

Space vanished, leaving only the darkness of his closed eyelids. The shooting pain in his body continued to grow into a tsunami.  

“Do we know what happened?”

“I don’t know, his vitals were fine one minute and then he was thrashing around and-" The voice was cut off as an agonized sound escaped through Grantaire’s teeth. 

“Open your eyes. _Grantaire,_ look at me!”  

And he did. He opened his eyes, and with the action a fresh wave of pain coursed through his body, and he fought against the hands that held him down. 

“Jesus.”

“Ben, you’ve gotta calm down! Stop fighting us.”

It took a few seconds for the bright lights and the colors to stop exploding in his vision, but then Grantaire was staring up at Vogel’s worried expression. He felt tears roll down his face and slowly unclenched his teeth. 

“Hey man,” Martinez said, not taking his hand from Grantaire’s other shoulder.

“Do you know where you are?” Lewis asked quietly.

Grantaire felt some of the tension leave his body and started to tremble at the pain that remained. “Yeah,” he said roughly. “Yeah, I do now. Sorry.”

“It's nothing to be sorry for. How do your ribs feel?” Beck asked, his voice shaking slightly. 

“They feel…” Glancing around the room, he took in the sight of his crew-mates in various states of distress. He was suddenly very aware of the way Lewis, Martinez, and Vogel still held him down on the table, and a rush of guilt flooded him. “Guys, I’m… You don’t have to…”

“Right,” Martinez said as they released their hold. “But dude, what happened?”

It took him a few seconds to not fall into the flashback that was still on the edge of his mind, and he avoided looking at the crew. “Bad dream, I guess.” The stars outside the window seemed a lot closer than they were and he could remember swimming in them. “Just a bad dream.”

…

  
**[ MISSION DATE: 692 ]**

_Did you know the Earth spins at over one-thousand miles per hour? That always baffled me as a kid. I remember how many times I asked my teacher to explain it to me, because I just couldn’t fathom it. As I began my career as an astronaut I still obsessed over it, even though I had the science to explain it. Even with the facts in front of me I could not process it as reality._

_We just don’t think about it. Not in our normal lives, anyway. When you’re walking down the street or having a coffee, your mind generally doesn’t obsess over the speed that the Earth is spinning at any given moment. And you don’t notice it. You wouldn’t notice it unless it stopped._

_Beck explained what’s happening to my body and this is all I could think about. In terms of science, the environment that I became used to was no longer present, making the longterm effects on my body—like malnutrition and slow healing—become more noticeable, in a sense._

_I also think it’s like that game you play with your friends. I’ve been spinning for a long time, and hoping to walk in a straight line after. Except there’s no one laughing at how badly I’m doing, and the farther I am from the straight line is that much closer I am to damage._

_I still feel the same. Everything is over, except it’s not. The adrenaline that I survived on for so long is still there, making it damn near impossible to let my body heal._

_It’s been five days. Feels like I’ll have an eternity before I get some of myself back._

_…_

**[ MISSION DATE: 694 ]**

_It hurts to type. It hurts to breathe, move, take my medicine, sleep, piss, or talk._

_Hurts to look at my crew-mates’ faces and get the feeling that it won’t ever be the same._

 …

“Can I have something to eat?” Grantaire asked in a steady voice on the eighth day. “No more juice or IV fluids, I mean.”

Beck and Lewis shared the briefest of looks. 

“Please?” 

Beck’s eyebrows knitted together as he hesitated. “Grantaire… I don’t think your body can…”

“You have to take it slow,” Lewis supplied. “You’ve got the best doctors in the world worrying about your vitals. How about something to drink for now, okay?”

Grantaire looked away, feeling a mixture of frustration and despair as he stared out the tiny sickbay window.

“Hey,” Beck said softly. “It’s just until I can make sure you’re okay… Trust us. Please.”

He closed his eyes, nodding in acquiescence. The tension eased out of his body. “Yeah.”

The doctor appeared with another glass of juice— Grantaire’s fourteenth since the rescue. Not that he was counting, though. He sipped the drink in silence, not looking at Lewis or Beck as he chose his words. “You guys don’t have to treat me like I’m glass, you know.” 

The two of them were silent for a solid minute before he turned his head and met their eyes. “Even if I am,” he said, the edges of his mouth quirking up. 

Lewis exhaled and took his hand. “Okay. Just tell us when we’re… When you need something.”

“We thought we needed to give you space. Jesus, Grantaire, I'm so sorry,” Beck said in horror.

Grantaire waited a few moments. “Well… I don’t really need space, but if _you_ need any there's a ton of it out there,” he said, gesturing back to the window. 

“Fuck, dude,” Beck groaned as Grantaire let out a few hoarse laughs. Lewis rolled her eyes but couldn’t keep the smile off her face. “That was _awful…”_  

Eternity seemed just a little closer, after that. 

…

**[ MISSION DATE: 699 ]**

_Achievements mean different things to different people. For example, someone on Earth probably just ran a marathon. They’re proud. Someone else just graduated, and another someone just finished writing something. Maybe someone else is proud about a test score, or not feeling shitty all day, or even getting out of bed. I know that Johanssen is proud of Martinez for only making four jokes about her and Beck all day._

_Me, though? I just had some rice and an apple for dinner. I also walked down the hall today, and Beck had a smile on his face. A real one._

_The small things are everything right now._

 ...

**[ JUNE 12, 2037 ]**

_“To Benjamin Grantaire,_

_On behalf of the entire space exploration community, we would like to extend our warmest wishes at your return to your crew aboard the Hermes and our deepest gratitude for your service. You have become a beacon of hope for Earth. May this message find you in good health as you continue to recuperate._

_Know that the entire world was rooting for you, and still is._

_Sincerely,_

_Theodore Sanders_

_Director of NASA”_

 

 

_“Grantaire,_

_You’ve certainly had me on the edge of my seat for the last year and a half. There’s a lot to tell you. I can’t wait to buy you a drink (or several) when you get back to Houston… once the doctors clear you, of course. Looking forward to it._

_Regards,_

_M. Henderson”_

 

_“R,_

_Yet again we’re at a loss for words. You did the impossible, and went even further._

_You’ve been in our hearts and minds since before day one, so just know there isn’t a single minute that we’re not waiting for you to step off that shuttle and come home. Look for our emails when they give us the clearance to send them all—there’s a lot of them._

_With all of our love,_

_Everyone”_

_…_

One night on the Hermes, the medicine Beck gave him wasn’t enough to keep the nightmares away, and recovery slipped a little farther from his grasp. 

Grantaire dreamt he was back in the Hab, and that the food packet he was holding suddenly disintegrated in his hands. He checked the supply boxes, but those were empty, too. Every bit of food—down to the last potato—was simply gone. Somehow he knew it was early on: too early for Pathfinder, too early for a rescue, and too early to beg anyone, _anywhere,_ for help. He went to the crops and started tearing through the dirt, digging for anything, any last plant, but dead roots were the only things he pulled out of the ground. He dug until his fingers bled, until his very hands started to fall apart in front of him and—

Grantaire woke up to Johanssen frantically shaking him awake, his blood like ice. He could still feel the dirt underneath his fingernails.

…

There are other nightmares, too. Sometimes everything was the same, all five-hundred and forty-nine Sols, up until the rescue itself. 

He dreams that Beck’s face appears at the top of the MAV in slow motion, that his fingers are only inches away, _he can almost reach him and—_

Then the MAV jolts, and Beck’s tether is pulled back. Grantaire struggles to reach for him, to try to unbuckle himself, but as he reaches down his hands freeze. The last thing he sees is Beck floating away, hands grasping at air, and the connection goes silent. The darkness consumes him but the dream doesn’t stop there. He’s trapped in the nightmare for what seems like hours, like days, until… Until—

Until the sound of his own gasping wakes him. His ribs scream in pain from his movements and he tries to compose his breaths for several minutes.

He tries to avoid sleep so much, after that. 

…

When he can’t sleep, or chooses not to try, Grantaire slowly wanders. Despite living on the Hermes the entire way there, he marvels at each part of it like it’s the first time he’s seen it. Unlike his crew-mates the ship hasn’t gotten old to him. 

Sometimes during these night walks he ends up in the kitchen. In front of everyone else he tries to avoid it: not because the food makes him uncomfortable, but because he has to restrain himself from obsessing over it. Grantaire knows his friends wouldn’t judge him, but he still doesn’t need an audience for this. 

As the rest of the crew rests he stands in front of the boxes stacked on the shelves, counting. He counts every box and every ration packet repeatedly until his head hurts. It becomes a habit; more than necessary if he wants any sleep or comfort. Grantaire goes from doing this occasionally to finding himself there several nights in a row without fail, and loses track of time in the process. 

He tries not to think about how agitated he gets in the day, not being able to _see_ the food, _what if it’s gone and—_

The seventh night in a row he winds up in the pantry, he keeps counting despite the rising panic building in his chest, despite the exhaustion threatening to make him collapse. Grantaire is still counting through desperate gasps for air as tears fall down his face. He doesn’t notice them. He doesn’t notice how many hours pass until Vogel finds him, wordlessly leading him out of the room with an arm around his shoulder. 

Lewis makes it a habit to wake up at some point in the nights that follow to make sure Grantaire is still asleep. On the rare occasion that she finds him in the kitchen, she helps him load the boxes of food onto the counter and counts with him, updating the information in a tablet. That helps him, after that— being able to see how much there is, how much they all have left. _It’s gonna be okay,_ he chants to himself, even when it doesn’t feel like it will be. 

…

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Vogel said softly.

Grantaire gave a small shake of his head. “No, I’ll do it. It’s important.”

“Just because Annie and Venkat say it’s important doesn’t mean it’s an order, Grantaire,” Johanssen scoffed.

“They’re right,” Lewis said. “You can say no.”

“Come on guys, it’s just a recording…” Grantaire muttered. “Since you all apparently don’t want to show off my impressive physique, it’s the least I can do in place of a video.” The sound of their snickers echoing around the control station made his heart jump (he would _never_ tire of that sound, not for a million years) and he let out a chuckle of his own. 

“Here you go, the system is on. You’ll just press this button.”

“Thanks, Martinez.”

Beck raised a hand, meeting his eyes. “And if you get tired just tell me and we can—"

“Yes, mom,” Grantaire said with an eye roll. 

“Alright man, it’s ready when you are,” Martinez said gently. 

He felt a jolt of nervousness rush through him. After a few moments he steadied his shoulders and reached over to the comm system. “Uh… Hi. Hello, this is Benjamin Grantaire. I had some pretty bad reception for a while but I wanted to check in with anyone who’s listening…”

Taking a look around the room, the reassuring gazes of his crew-mates prompted him to continue.

“I want to thank everyone for that. Listening. I’ve been told how much support this mission has gathered over the last year and it’s… It’s mind-boggling to me. But thanks, to everyone who listened for me. Thank you.”

Grantaire closed his eyes and tried not to let the sheer pressure in his chest overwhelm him. Would anyone be able to hear the sleepless nights or the nightmares in his voice? _His thoughts lie with a group of people millions of miles away, in a tiny room in Paris, and he comes back to reality…_

“I know some people wanted updates, so I’ll try to make this quick. I’m doing good, my crew-mates are doing good, the food sucks but at least it’s not potatoes—"

He cracked a grin as the rest of them stifled laughter.

“—And as for me, I uh… I’m getting there. Don’t really know what else to say right now. I know there will be more opportunities to tell more as we get closer to Earth. In the meantime, I hope all is well. I hope you’re all enjoying the oxygen. See you all in six months. Thanks again.”

…

Once Grantaire finally allowed himself to accept that he was really, _truly_ on his way back to Earth, he thought about his friends more. He thought about how his heart would burst when he saw them, the way he’d feel like the luckiest person in the universe to just feel their arms around him…

He didn’t care whether his ribs would be completely healed by the time he was back or not: the thought of the group hug kept him going throughout the journey home.  

…

The first time the Hermes got close enough to Earth for live connection, Commander Lewis left Grantaire alone in the control room as he waited for the feed to come up. It was October now, only a couple of months until they were _back._ He didn’t know what to expect when he saw his friends— sure, he’d been communicating with them through email since the rescue. But talking to them, hearing their voices in live time? It was intimidating, and he felt a little guilty for being so anxious. _What if I can’t control my reaction? They’ll think I’ve lost my mind, which isn’t completely wrong and I…_

The NASA logo popped up on the screen and the adrenaline felt like pure electricity in his veins and _oh my god here we go keep it together keep it—_

The feed was establishing. Each second felt like a lifetime. 

_What are they going to say to me when they see my face? The world saw shitty quality pictures months and months ago but my friends are about to see my full face, no obstruction, oh god I still look half dead and—_

Grantaire took a few breaths and tried to keep the anxiety in his chest from consuming him. He was so preoccupied with the worry that it took a couple of seconds for him to realize that the connection was live and… and…

And there they were. All of their faces, looking worriedly into the camera. The full force of it took his breath away and he drank in the sight of them… They were so vivid, so much _better_ and _brighter_ than any picture his imagination conjured over the last two years. _Everything_ he’d had to do to survive led to this moment. 

None of them spoke or did anything but stare back… Then it hit him that they were probably just as scared as he was, and the thought of it made his eyebrows knit together as he let out a rushed, relieved chuckle.

Suddenly whatever tension was there vanished and they all started crying and speaking excitedly at once; all Grantaire could do was beam back at them in adoration. Their voices, in _real_ time, were like a balm, like paradise, like nothing he’d ever experienced before. He wondered if they’d be able to tell that he had tears in his eyes. 

Grantaire let their voices wash over him and was in no rush to interrupt. He had time, after all. 

…

There it was. After almost two and a half years of trying to come up with this image, after the frustration of not remembering it perfectly… _Finally._ He could see oceans glittering a few hundred miles below. The Hermes was so close to Earth that he could see everything—storms, islands, deserts, ice, cities, rainforests... and the pure relief of it escaped from his chest in silent sobs. _God,_ the view alone was enough to make his heart stop. This was the pinnacle of the desperation that had clawed the inside of him for so _long_ and here it was, right under his feet. This was it, except… 

They may have made it to the summit, but his journey back had only just begun. 

…

**[ December 21, 2037 ]**

“Three minutes until departure,” the flight controller’s voice rang out. _God, it was really happening then._ All six crew members were strapped into the shuttle, ready to disembark the Hermes for good. Grantaire craned his neck to the right and saw Johanssen grinning at him from her own seat. 

“What?” He asked her, unable to keep a smile from his face. She didn't answer as Lewis and Martinez’s voices confirmed the flight status.

Grantaire realized right then that the last time the crew had launched, it was without him. In those few minutes he _had_ been dead, and they’d left with an empty seat. Now, all of them were coming back, a year and a half off schedule. His throat tightened as he thought about their sacrifice, the gap in their lives, the fact they thought he was _worth_ this, _how the hell can I possibly convey this to them and—_

“We’re almost home, you know,” Beck said, interrupting the rising tension in his chest. He turned to look at him, with no idea what expression was on his gaunt face, but Beck’s smile mirrored Johanssen’s and then NASA radioed in with the final flight checks and then they were all crying, laughing, wishing they could hold on to each other as they braced themselves for the turbulence for one last _time_ and it was everything Grantaire thought it would be.

_“Ten. Nine. Eight…”_

…

“Good morning, we’re moments away from receiving word of the Hermes crew’s return to Earth, and in the next twenty minutes we could see the shuttle landing here at Ellington Field in Houston. As you can see we have a large crowd gathered, yet still modest under the circumstances of the mission. For the last seven months the entire world has been captivated by the status of the six crew members, notably astronaut Benjamin Grantaire, who famously survived a year and a half on Mars. The details of his recovery have been kept under wraps but I have learned that there is a team of doctors standing by to examine Grantaire immediately upon arrival. The main medical concerns lie with the longterm malnutrition and exposure to the harsh environment, and the…”

…

“Just a few minutes…” Venkat Kapoor murmured. Feuilly glanced at him for the briefest moment before turning his gaze back to the horizon. His thoughts strayed to that day he and Bahorel stood here, watching Grantaire board a space shuttle—

 _Pay attention,_ he chided himself. He couldn’t stop bouncing on his heels or rubbing his hands together. Feuilly could imagine the calm, collected tone of Combeferre’s voice asking how he was. _Well, Ferre, I’m about to launch into space myself, now that you ask._ He immediately gritted his teeth. _Enough, dude. You’re going to miss it if you’re not careful._

That was impossible, he knew it, for every fiber in his being was attuned to the smallest detail in the sky—every few moments a rush of adrenaline would course through him but _damn, it’s just a cloud._

“Any minute now.” Kapoor’s voice startled Feuilly out of his scrutinizing. He relaxed his shoulders and let out a deep breath, feeling a tiny amount of the nervous energy leave his body. The clouds seemed a little less intimidating, and he let the emptiness wash away the mindless internal chatter. 

The crowd around him, however, was still just as antsy. They whispered among themselves—reporters, officials, doctors, photographers, flight crew. No one felt like breaking the tense silence that had captivated them for the last hour and a half. _Jesus, had it been that long?_ But Feuilly surpassed a tiny smile at the thought, because he’d stand here for a week straight if it meant he would get this reunion. A week was nothing compared to two and a half years. 

Another minute passed… Then two… Then four… And then the silence was broken.

 _“Ah,”_ Kapoor exhaled, with the most sincere smile on his face he’d had in a long time. Right then, in the calmest, _clearest_ moment of Feuilly’s life, a tiny dot appeared at the edge of the sky. “There.” 

…

Once the jolting stopped, the crew took a few moments to catch their breath before the ground crew opened the shuttle doors. It was silent, save for the howling of the wind outside (a sound glorious in itself) and the sudden burst of Grantaire’s voice.

“Oh, shit,” he exclaimed, not noticing the frightened reactions of his five friends. 

“What hap-"

“Are you okay?”

“Just hang on, Ben, we’ll be out in a minute-"

“Wait, why is he laughing?”

“Grantaire, _what the hell_ is so funny?”

He eventually began to cough—a sign of his not fully healed body—but let out a rough chuckle. “I’m _fine,_ for fuck’s sake. You guys are ridiculous.”

“So…?” Vogel began, but thought better of it with a shake of his head.

“Care to explain?” Lewis said with a wry smile that no one else could see.

“Gravity,” Grantaire said in a shaky voice before delving into another round of chuckles. "Isn't it fascinating?"

Martinez shook his head as a wide grin appeared on his face. “He really did lose it, didn’t he?”

“I think we established that before Mars, though,” Johanssen added dryly. 

“Oh come _on,”_ he complained weakly as the sound of their laughter echoed around the shuttle. 

…

Lewis was the first one out. It made sense, as their commander. It also made sense because none of them had the muscle strength to stand, and she was the first person the ground crew could get to. Slowly but surely each of them were lifted and practically dragged out of the cabin to a deafening round of cheers. Finally, they reached Grantaire and Vogel.

The woman who stood in front of him deftly unfastened the harnesses before helping him with his helmet. “There are a lot of people out there, yeah?” He croaked. 

“Yeah,” she replied, giving him a sympathetic look. “You can tell them to leave, though. They probably would.”

He barked a laugh at that. “NASA would really kill me, then.”

“Damn right we would,” a voice said from the shuttle door. Grantaire looked up and smiled.

_“Mitch.”_

Vogel let out a feeble cheer as their flight director beamed at them both. “Nice to see your face, boss.”

“Welcome back, jackasses,” Henderson mumbled as he maneuvered around the seats to pull them in a brief, tight embrace. “Jesus, you all have caused me a lot of paperwork.”

“Right, that was the goal from the start,” Grantaire said with a grunt as Mitch and the crew-member pulled him up from his seat. He ignored their warnings of _steady_ while he stretched out his back. If they hadn’t been holding onto him, he would have fallen. “Get stranded on a planet so Henderson would have to file a report about it. I’m glad my mission was a success.”

Mitch’s smile faltered briefly at the comment before shaking his head in exasperation. “You must have been planning that joke for a while, I take it. Here, careful,” he said, pulling Grantaire’s arm around his shoulder to help him to the exit. They paused next to the door (just out of sight of the crowd) and Mitch gave him a long look. “You ready?”

His heart was hammering inside his chest. “Not really,” he said, feeling the edges of his mouth twisting up. “But damned if I wait a second longer.” He took a deep breath and felt the wind hit his face the second they stepped outside. 

…

If there was one thing he really didn’t expect, it was the _size_ of the crowd. There had to be fifty, sixty, even seventy people standing on the tarmac. The buzz of voices paused for the _tiniest_ moment as Mitch steadied Grantaire at the top of the stairs. Less than a millisecond later he was flooded by the sound of pure emotion—victory and pride in the highest form. The applause alone almost made him want to shrink back in surprise, but he couldn’t do anything but smile at the faces below him. _Everyone_ was looking up at them.

“Come on, mate. This is _your_ party,” Mitch said as they carefully maneuvered down the steps. 

Grantaire turned to look for the rest of their crew-mates in the crowd as Vogel made it to the bottom of the steps behind him. A flash of dark hair flew by him—Vogel’s wife, throwing her arms around him. Then Grantaire saw Martinez buried in the arms of his wife and children. The sight of Johanssen and Beck’s linked hands as they were showered in the hugs of their families was so overpowering, he had to look away. Lewis’s feet hung half a foot off the ground as she and her husband embraced. This sight, the sight of his crew—no, his _family,_ reuniting with their loved ones, soothed Grantaire in a way he didn’t even know hurt. 

And then he saw Feuilly’s face in the crowd.

If seeing _their_ reunions took his breath away, it could not hold a candle to this. Every moment of nostalgia and every bitter moment of desperation cascaded out of him as easily as exhaling. Seconds felt like minutes, he could not _think_ properly, and then everything rushed back to reality and he realized they were a mere ten feet away from each other. _Feuilly,_ he thought. He was somewhat aware of the uselessness of his own legs, if only he could _move, damn it._

“Feuilly,” Grantaire muttered, not knowing whether this was another cruel dream but he didn’t even care anymore, _let it_ be a dream—

He numbly took his arm from Mitch’s shoulder, forcing every fiber of his being to put one shaky foot in front of the other. There were no more than five steps between them. “Feuilly,” the word tumbled out of his mouth. Louder, this time.  

It was like Feuilly was moving toward him in slow motion, his arms outstretched and his mouth was forming words but Grantaire couldn’t hear them above the rush of blood in his ears. 

“Feuilly,” he said, like a breath of fresh air, _this was real—_

They were inches away now, and nothing was in slow motion anymore and finally, _finally,_ Grantaire’s fingers wrapped around the fabric of Feuilly’s sweatshirt like a lifeline as his legs gave out. 

Feuilly threw his arms around him as they crashed into one another, holding onto the flight suit so he wouldn’t fall. Grantaire couldn’t feel anything but the tears that finally poured down his face. He couldn’t hear anything but the sound of his sobs ripping from of his chest. A thousand memories came at him all at once… _holding a picture of his crew. The first contact from Pathfinder. The sound of their laughter. The feel of Beck’s hand pulling him from the MAV. His first meal. The Musain. That first view of Mars. Waking up to his crew-mates standing around the stretcher._

This was better than that. This was better than _all_ of those put together. If Grantaire could have taken those moments and given them all up for even a _fraction_ of the pure relief he felt at that moment, buried in Feuilly’s embrace, he’d do it in a heartbeat. 

They finally pulled back enough to steady Grantaire, and Feuilly placed a hand on the side of his face. _“Hey, brother,”_ he said with tears rolling down his cheeks, a crack in his voice, and a smile that was brighter than the sun.

He was closer to home, in that moment, than he'd ever dreamed. 

…

He didn’t know how long they stood there, under the constant _clicking_ of camera shutters (and the sound of everyone else’s sniffling), but eventually Grantaire’s vision started to blur and the adrenaline that had fueled him since takeoff wore off. Gradually the overpowering ache in his chest returned, and with it, the exhaustion that had haunted him since the rescue.  

Voices, indistinguishable from one another, began to register through the blissful emptiness of his mind. “How is he doing?”

“R,” someone else was saying. Feuilly’s voice, he finally decided—no one else here would call him that. “I think the doctors need you.”

Grantaire began to untangle himself from the embrace, blinking a few times as he focused on the people in front of him. 

“Taire?” Feuilly asked, frowning in concern.

He didn’t know what he was going to say, but his concentration vanished without warning as the comfort of darkness took over.

“Oh! Someone catch him—"

_…_

_“I think he’s waking up.”_

_“Grantaire?”_

_“Come on, dude, you can’t keep passing out all the time.”_

_“Shut up, Martinez.”_

_“All I’m saying is when you can’t hold a conversation with him then-"_

_“Uh, excuse me, didn’t you black out earlier?”_

_“No comment.”_

Grantaire couldn’t feel anything because of the pain medicine but he knew there was a huge smile on his face. “I think Martinez… needs to shut the hell up,” he said thickly, his eyes still closed. 

“Hey, he’s alive!” Rick said with a hoot. “How do you like our new setup?”

“Just bombard him, why don’t you?” Vogel said somewhere to his left. 

“Oh, go back to your magazine.”

Grantaire finally forced his eyelids open and glanced around the bright room. All six of them were propped up in hospital beds in the infirmary. “You guys just can’t help but copy me, can you?” He chortled. “Just _had_ to see what being a patient was like.”

Johanssen flipped him off from the bed to his right as Vogel and Martinez laughed humorlessly. 

Beck sighed, not looking up from his clipboard. “You've been out for a few hours. They forced _us_ in here earlier. I think they said we can see our families again once the blood-work comes in, though.”

“Are you seriously looking at your own chart?” Grantaire said, grinning.

“In the wise words of Martinez, no comment.”

“You should have been awake earlier, Grantaire,” Lewis laughed. “The medical staff looked like they were going to kill him. He’s incapable of turning off the _doctor_ mode.”

Beck’s murderous expression fell from his face when the doctors returned. “Well, we have your initial assessments and test results in,” the doctor in front said without preamble. She glanced around the room briefly. “You’re all in decent health, aside from Grantaire. Your bodies will need time to adjust, of course.”

“So…” Lewis began. “Does this mean we can go?”

The doctor sent an apologetic look in Grantaire’s direction. “Except for him, yes.”

Martinez and Johanssen cheered as the medical staff helped the five of them into wheelchairs. “So long, Ben!” 

“Fuck off!” Grantaire called after them in an equally sugary voice. He ground his teeth in frustration at the quietness of the room. The doctor paused in the doorway, interrupting the tension simmering in his body.  

“We can’t release you yet, but your friends are here.” She smiled softly. “Just thought you’d want to know.”

“Thanks,” he replied quietly, anger forgotten. He stared at the empty bed across from him for several minutes, thoughts desperately racing through his stunned mind.  _Friends,_ she had said. _Your friends are here._ His heart pounded in his chest. _That means… Does that mean… Could it…?_

Grantaire’s head immediately snapped up as the door opened.

"Hi," Enjolras said breathlessly. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -So when I first began to write this a few months back I really wanted to do a detailed story of Grantaire’s recovery on the return journey, but somehow it feels better to leave it vague and pay more attention to those flashbacks in the second part of the series
> 
> -Which brings me to my next point: the second part is going to be the Grantaire/Enjolras we all dream of, don’t worry. you survived the angst this long, hang in there!!! (but how about that cliffhanger lol...) 
> 
> -If, like me, you enjoy super angsty and painful fics (and wish there was more written about the recovery that was not part of the original book plot) there are some fabulous Martian fics that really go in depth about Mark’s return home and everyone should read them 
> 
> -Also, the reunion with Feuilly was the biggest motivation for me writing this; I hope I conveyed that as well as I'd hoped because every detail of that scene has haunted me from the very beginning
> 
> -I never elaborated as to why Feuilly would be the emergency contact, but my opinion (in this universe anyway) is that Grantaire would see Feuilly as the most levelheaded of his closest friends in the event of an emergency. Though Eponine or Joly would be good choices, maybe they'd be a bit more emotional whereas Feuilly would be the first to gather his wits and hold it together? Like R would probably think about the possibility of bad news and he'd rather Feuilly be the one to deliver it. But that's just me, and that train of thought led to here so
> 
> [ This work has been edited for a better flow ]


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